


the chemicals between us

by streimel



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streimel/pseuds/streimel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life, as Sungyeol sees it, is perfect - everything is so calculated, so formulated by the Republic, there's no room for mistakes.</p><p>Except, of course, for human error.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the army of achievers

Agent Kang is having a bad fucking day.

It's not just the fact that Agent Oh got demoted, though that certainly isn't helping. For something that's supposed to be one of the most important workshares in the whole Republic, one would think that they'd get a little more assistance around here. Instead, it's just him and Agent Im, working from 7 to 7 in this little office, desk to desk, responsible for a whole  _dong_  of 60,000 people and all the matches that happen within that little area. Not that everyone needs to be matched anymore (the statistics for this area include 51,439 people already matched or otherwise not eligible, the elderly and underage citizens and what not) - he doesn't have to worry about those people for now.

That leaves 8,561 people who've reached the age of maturity, yet are, as of now, unmatched; 8,561 souls he'll study, evaluate, _learn -_ and that is a lot of matches to be studying, evaluating, learning, with just two of them to do the work. Sure, some of the other matchers, in different  _dongs_ , in different cities altogether, will pull people from his pool, ones they'll assign because they found the match first, but it doesn't means he sleeps any easier at night, knowing that.

When he was being prepared for this workshare, they told his work class you were supposed to spend hours perusing potential matches, comparing them all, investigating the best possible options. This is the rest of eternity for two people - there are no take-backs, no do-overs, no second-chances here. This is important shit (not that they said it like that, but still). It was such an honor, he felt so superior to his brother and sister, his parents' future was guaranteed; he felt like he was one of the most important people in the whole country. They let him believe it, too.

Now it's hard to buy into, crammed into a corner office that must have once been a storage closet, wading through stacks of papers from a thousand Watchers, assessments and qualification statements and profile deductions. They want him (and Im, too) to finish 6 matches a day. A _day_. So much for the days and days they were supposed to leisurely pursue these matches. Now they have less than two hours per person to determine their true soulmate. With three people, it was bad. With two, it's nearly  _impossible,_ but this position is nearly sacred, they said. Changes take time. " _Agent Oh just can't be replaced tomorrow_ ", and all that bullshit. The next person they can expect to be brought in doesn't finish training for another 6 months. Life is hell for the forseeable future.

The supervisors banned small talk to "promote more productivity", like that was a solution at all. What Agent Kang knows is that it's just a cover; Agent Oh talked too much, about too many radical ideas, like if any of this really worked, if it was ethical. Kang almost wonders if he's dead now, but he tries not to dwell on it; he swears as of late Watchers have begun reading minds, and if he thinks too long about it, they'll start questioning him about his loyalty to the Republic.

Kang sends off the latest set they've created as Im calls out the next, voice catching as she reads the name.

"Lee Sungyeol...oh, he's the-!"

Their eyes meet across the desks; they both know the room's bugged. Shit, the whole  _country_  is bugged. One statement could slip by, of course, but if it doesn't, they're both done. Im coughs a little, clearing her throat, and they both begin the search.

"Nam Woohyun. 100% match. Boom."

100% matches are 1 in 20, maybe not even that. It makes their life so much easier; instead of researching 10 potential matches that are all 93% matched with their subject, they submit it immediately. One down, infinity to go. It's one of the only moments of pure relief he has in this damn workshare, to see this, and Kang brings up the form to submit the match, fingers flying over the keyboard to pull the files from Nam's own  _dong_  and see it processed.

Until the power cuts out, that is.

"Fuck!"

Im stares at him blankly, tensing a little as she looks over her shoulder. Their Guides could be outside right now, should be outside actually, or even if a supervisor walked by, using that type of language would  _definitely_  get him a deduction in his profile. Maybe even called in for a behavior assessment. But the time snuck up on him - he hadn't even realized it was 7. Just like that, the whole country shuts down, and he couldn't stay even if he begged.

"Shit. Fuck. Dammit. Shit shit shit!" His fist slams on the desk, coffee cups jumping, every curse under the sun burned into the 'do not say' part of his mind spilling out from between his lips. Im waves her hands in the air at him, silent against his raging.

"Stop!" she hisses. "If you get demoted, I'll be doing this alone. We'll finish it tomorrow!"

Of course, he doesn't really have an option. Work's done at 7, promptly, whether he likes it or not. The higher-ups all say it's because the Republic values their well-being, wants them to have time to relax and wind down, but he thinks it's less his mental stability and more a money saving tactic - the whole working sector in the country shuts down for 12 hours, millions of computers, devices, everything, clicked off like pulling a massive plug. The whole system's been shaky since the Revolution - they've come a long way since the blackouts and energy crises of 30 years ago, but old habits die hard, he guesses.

Someone moves past the room, throwing shadows under the door, and he sits back, running his hands over his face. He's so high-strung, run ragged trying to make these things work, and he picks up a note, jotting down the name before throwing it on the keyboard. Fuck it, he'll worry about this tomorrow.

* * *

The note on his keyboard makes his morning just a little bit easier. He can just search this kid up, process the match, have the first one done for the day before 7:01. He types in the name, feeling his stomach sink when he realizes in his haste he forgot a few extra details that might have been important.

"Im, do you remember Nam's birthday? I just looked in the registry, there's two: one born in '91 and one in '93. Fu- ugh, I mean, how did two people even choose this name?"

"Maybe they were really into trees?" she says absent-mindedly, looking at her own notes in a flurry.

They stare at each other for a moment, gauging the feeling, before they both break into laughter. It's rare moment; they haven't laughed together in months. It's fleeting, but a smile still lingers as Im continues.

"Lee's '91, it's got to be the older one. Makes more sense."

Has to be. Matches are mostly from the same age grade, at least according to government standards - something about hitting the same life cycles at the same time. He could dwell on it longer, take just a minute and double-check, but he's already submitting the match, moving on to the next profile without a second glance backward. If they can get seven matches done in a day, they get rewarded with a bonus in their profiles, and today is looking like one of those days. By 7:02, they're both already focused on Kim Seungyoo's destiny. Kudos to Sunyeol and Woohyung or whoever on their forthcoming happiness. For Kang, it's over.

In fact, it's all done so quickly, that when they bring him in front of the Tribunal for questioning much later, he barely even remembers it.


	2. we are the hollow men

His thumbprint unlocks the front door like normal, but he's reasonably certain this isn't the apartment his Guide picked him up from the morning.

It's the same unnumbered gray door, the same gray, unmarked hallway as every other place he's lived, and he's lived in a few buildings, that he knows of. He has to give it to the Guides, to remember exactly where everyone ends up. Of course, they punch his ID in the elevator like normal, shooting them up to the right level in a second, but they must get lost sometimes. Take a wrong turn down a corridor, input the wrong directions in the car. He can never tell, when they're driving, the windows all blacked out to prevent him seeing outside, but on the few occasions he gets to walk around the neighborhood, the buildings all look the same. It's a mystery, how they remember it all.

It's not the first time; new living quarter assignments have no warning, at least not usually. He's done this whole game before, opening the door and seeing the nicer furnishings, larger spaces and better appliances, all his basic items already set atop the tables and stuffed on the bookshelves. He really wonders how they do it all when he's at work; it has to be someone's workshare, just to handle the reassignments of all the people promoting and demoting around the city. He'll never see them, but they're out there, living and breathing and surviving here just like him.

It always throws him off a little, but this time is something new altogether. It's huge, the biggest living quarters he's ever seen, like something he'd see on TV, and it's completely, utterly decadent. Plush carpets, a grand piano, views of the river (the whole river, not a sliver of water in the distance squeezed between two skyscrapers). A king size bed. Leather couches. Guest room after guest room. There's everything a worker could hope and dream their contributions would eventually earn them.

_There's someone else's stuff._

His stuff, as well. He notices that immediately. But he gets so caught up in the moment, practically running from room to room and throwing open doors as if tearing off wrapping paper on birthday presents, it doesn't hit him that those aren't some of his books on the coffee table, and that there's an odd, exorbitant collection of coffee cups consuming a whole cabinet by itself in the kitchen.

It's the toothbrush that throws him off instead.

He's standing in the tub, shuffling back and forth from side to side and wondering how many people the designer really expected to use the thing at one time when his mind catches something strange out of the corner of his eye. There's his, like normal, orange and green, upright in the holder just to the right of the sink, just like he likes. But next to that, a little companion to his own, is a purple and blue one, slightly used bristles frayed in every which way. There are two toothbrushes. Two. His, and theirs. Someone else's. Not his.

_He's qualified for his companion._

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, his mom's number half-dialed in a frenzy, before he chucks it on the bed and stalks off back to the living room. That's when he sees them, all the little things he missed when he walked in, the details that are standing out to him now. He yanks books off the shelf in twos, flipping them over and reading their covers. He wants to learn who this person is, what they like and what they're interested in and  _who they are_. He runs back to their ( _their_ , not his, their, the one  _they_  share, together) closet, momentarily reveling in the huge space, and drags across shirts and sweaters and pants one by one, assessing their style. Everything new that he knows wasn't assigned with the living quarters upgrade is inspected, picked up and felt and studied. It doesn't help him much; all he can tell is that he's assigned someone who's tall (and basic in their sense of style), enamored with plays, and apparently very, very good at their job.

Good doesn't even cover it. They must have a premier workshare, because he sure as hell didn't qualify for a place like this with  _his_  workshare. No, they're big, whoever they are. Very big. Not your everyday schoolteacher, accountant, even lawyer; they couldn't have achieved quarters like this. This is someone  _big_.  **Huge**. A politician, maybe. Or a CEO. At the very least, an athlete, one that's won the country some medals. But if that were the case, it doesn't make sense that someone on his workshare classification would qualify as their companion. That just isn't how this works; people qualify for companions in their own workshare classification level, and he's not even  _close_  to this.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, because the front door opens and closes, and his heart begins racing as he returns to the living room, standing stock-still by one of the lounges. He doesn't know if he should sit or stand, and he vibrates nervously, rearranging his body again and again into various postures he think will look more natural as footsteps come down the hallway.

"Oh, it's just you." It's impossible to hide his disappointment, and he slumps down onto the chaise, feeling deflated.

"You know, I understand your feelings at the moment, but lack of respectful greetings can still go into your file. How about you try again, Mr. Nam?" Her words are haughty, but he knows she's just joking, even as he mumbles out a more polite welcome. Out of all the Watchers he's had, probably 60 or more in his lifetime, she's one of the friendlier ones, one that won't write him up for a violation like that. She's obviously new; if he's correct, she's probably even younger than him, maybe 20 at most. But he doesn't know her age, even her name - Watchers and their subjects aren't meant to be friendly. There's dangers in being close, too many biased observations on the Watcher's end and all that. That's why they change so often.

"Well, I just came to ensure your Guide led you to the correct living quarters..." she adds distantly after a while, after she's taken her time and examined the space. She's not here to observe him (not overtly, that is), just to report his new home for documentation purposes, and he stands to wish her goodbye. She's done her duty, and even she won't want to intrude on him meeting his companion; this is the moment he's been prepared for his entire life.

He shows her to the door, and she looks around one last time, eyes lingering on the decor, on the space. He'd seen her eyes traveling over the walls, looking through the windows in the living room, but now she's completely seemed to have forgotten herself.

"I just don't- well." He's not sure what she's talking about, but she looks disgruntled as she passes under the chandelier in the foyer, eyes tracing the crystals as they glitter against the light. She doesn't understand the decadence either.

"I'm sorry?" It's best to be polite, to act naive, like he doesn't know that something seems off as well. Assignments come straight from the higher-ups, and the first rule he ever learned as a child was to never question the higher-ups, especially on matters of milestone events. If he's here, he's supposed to be here, and that's that.

"Nothing," she says brusquely, face reddening as if she's been caught. She knows how smart he can be, and she herself isn't the best at hiding her emotions, considering she's a Watcher. She's let her guard slip, and she's uncomfortable about it. When she leaves without saying another word, he just pretends nothing even happened.

If a lifetime of Watchers had taught him anything, it's just easier to act like nothing strange even happened.

* * *

Later on, when he stopped to think about it, the Watchers had always been there, since day one.

Not that he remembers it, but they had to be there, before he could remember. They were there since he  _could_ remember, there in the background of his earliest memories - they surely had been there before even those. He remembers sitting on the rug in his room, probably around three, because he could understand enough to be curious about why the woman with long hair and gold-rimmed glasses kept coming to watch him. He remembers asking her, who she was and why didn't she play with him, and she had written in her little book, like she always woud, before answering.

"Well, Woohyun, one day you're going to be big and strong, just like your mother and father, and you'll have many things to do. You'll have a workshare, just like they do. When you help out, and do your part, you'll earn a companion, and maybe even children as time goes on. As you grow up, you'll display lots of characteristics which will help us determine where you belong, and who you belong with. I am, along with those that will follow in my footsteps, here to ensure you'll end up in the right place, with the right companion. Your family will be needed in maintaining the Republic as the best country in the world."

In retrospect, she probably hadn't qualified for children yet, probably hadn't interacted with a child in years, maybe since her own childhood, because her explanation simply went right over his head, full of concepts and words he wouldn't understand for a long time. But the memory stayed with him, vivid, a bright film he routinely rewatched in his mind, and when he started to comprehend what it all meant, he found himself thinking about it more and more.

So they had always been there, watching him, dropping in to his class, his family quarters, his football games. Unexpected and unannounced, yet never fully out of mind. It would have been hard, to not think about their presence. They were always popping up, not just for him, but everywhere he went. His classmates' Watchers, lined up in a row at the back wall, frantic scribbling of notes the only sound in the room besides the wavering voice of a solitary 12-year-old delivering an oral presentation. Watchers at the bank when he went with his mom, discussing a particular cases' recent spending habits. Watchers in his house, studying Boohyun in the kitchen; his Aspiration Path was set at being a chef. He'd been good in childhood, studious and neat, and was thus allowed a choice in his potential workshare.

Woohyun wasn't so lucky.

Naturally, it was his own fault; luck had nothing to do with it, really. It wasn't that he wasn't ambitious; he dedicated his life to his aspiration, working hard every day to show his Watchers his abilities. It was just, he got so caught up with it, he forgot about everything else; his whole life revolved around becoming the best he could be in one specific area. Everything was football, because that was his only dream. He was small, but fast, slight but fearless on the field, and representing the Republic guaranteed a life of enviable benefits, the choicest of living quarters, the best of companions, better care for his parents in their Golden Years. There was no other option.

It wasn't until after he broke his tibia, during the district championship game in year 7, that he realized how much he had fucked himself over in the long run.

He had already felt terrible enough, laid up in bed, spending all day contemplating the potential that the fracture signaled the end of his playing career indefinitely, and the demise of his long-term dreams. He knew he wasn't smart enough to reach the top-grade workshares, be a doctor or a researcher and live at the very pinnacle of society. At best, he was looking at a mid-grade aspiration, maybe a teacher, or an office worker.

His Watcher had confirmed his concerns when he had stopped in to drop off the homework he missed, as well as see how Woohyun was doing. This Watcher had been particularly cold, lacking the empathy and concern of his predecessors, and Woohyun couldn't have imagined a worse person to have this discussion with.

"Look, I'll explain it like it is. You're 15 now - you have three, maybe four years before you'll be assigned. You have no skills to support any aspirations. You have nothing to say for yourself besides a meager skill in athletics that it essentially over as of today. You've let your academics fall by the wayside in chasing this aspiration, an aspiration that has not been supported by any of your Watchers. Are you really prepared for the future?"

It had been hard for him not to totally go off, to yell and scream and kick the Watcher out, but those things didn't reflect well on one's assessment later on. So he had swallowed his pride and asked "what type of workshare am I looking at?" expecting the very worst but stupidly hoping his Watcher would console him, tell him everything was going to be okay, to work out just like he wanted.

"Perhaps a laborer," the Watcher had suggested. "Starting your workshare in a factory, maybe a grocery store. There are opportunities for advancement, if you work hard, and-"

"I'm not stupid." He could hear the ragged breathing of his chest, heaving in anger, but there were no other sounds in the room, time passing by infinitesimally slowly. He learned then it was possible to stop time, just by saying the wrong thing, the power of words to somehow halt the passage and leave you introspective on how everything in your life went to shit, all at once.

The Watcher hadn't responded to that for a while, instead looking at him with some of the first emotion he had really allowed. Woohyun's righteous rage had died out underneath the Watcher's gaze, feeling the disappointment, as if it were almost tangible in the room. He was used to disappointment, from his teachers, from his parents, but coming from someone who very well decided what his future might be, it suddenly wasn't something he could brush off anymore.

"The very fact that you think laborers are 'stupid _'_  just proves to me how naive you really are. You know so little about the world, because you're stuck in this bubble you don't care to look out of. How incredibly, incredibly disappointing."

And with that, he had left, and not returned. Another Watcher replaced him, one who had obviously been told to not expect much, one who studied him with a resigned passivity, and that had urged him even more. His leg had healed poorly, recurring pain plaguing him long after he'd been discharged, and his aspiration had died, left behind on that field. He had a handful of years to turn his life around, and nothing to speak of for himself. His friends had competitions won, songs composed or papers published, all to support themselves, and he couldn't think of a single achievement he could write down on his workshare application. He was running out of time.

So he had tried to turn it around. Opened the book of workshares, looked at what he needed, what he could do with so little time. Took a marker, X-ed out all the ones that were impossible now, all the ones he had already missed the deadlines on. That removed a lot of them, the ones he would have needed to train for since childhood, the ones that required the inborn abilities to act, create, build, imagine and dream up and make so. Things he didn't have.

He was practically stuck in the middle bracket; the life he had dreamed of was gone. No more upper crust aspirations, no mansions or ultimate care for his parents in their Golden Years. But he could still do a lot, be comfortable, be  _happy_. He didn't care how it happened, so long as he could prove to everyone, his parents and teachers and Watchers, that he could be something.

He flipped open the book, closed his eyes and pointed his finger and there it was, the answer he didn't even know he'd been looking for. For the first time since his hospitalization, he had felt excited for the future.

* * *

Woohyun waits until the sun goes down, until the stars come out and the moon rises, and then he waits some more. If it weren't for the toothbrush, for the Watcher's visit and her comments and her demeanor, he might think he just got really lucky and promoted to this place (even if that would never,  _ever_  be possible in his position in society). But he's here, and most work share hours are done, and he's still alone. Desperately alone.

He debates what his companion might be. A doctor maybe? Doctor's work hours like this, sometimes double shifts even. But could a doctor qualify for a place this? Doubtful. A politician, then? Perhaps out on a trip? It's more likely. But why would they choose his day of assignment when they were away? Most of the CEOs would be older, but they could be reassigned a companion, right? Would they do that to someone in his age grade?

The thoughts plague him all night, long after he climbs into bed, and they swim around in a dizzy haze, winding down deeper and deeper until he finally falls into a restless sleep, alone in this big bed of his. Theirs. A bed so big he turns and turns without ever reaching the end, and it wakes him up in a cold sweat of dread. It feels empty, too empty, but he shakes it off; he hasn't even met his companion, and he's already having withdrawals? It's silly.

When he falls back asleep again, it's still light and restless, and he barely sinks into the warm comfort of unconsciousness like he usually does. Every sound, the tick-tocking of the clock in the living room, the sound of the central air clicking on, it all keeps him just at the surface of wakefulness. He rolls over, staring at the bright 3:13 on the clock, but when he blinks, it changes to 4:36. Nothing makes much sense in this state, and even the opening and closing of the front door doesn't pull him back out. But the sensation crawls under his skin, making his eyes flicker open, make his pupils dilate in the dark of the room. The red glow of the clock illuminates his side of the bed, and beyond that, moonlight from the windows in the hallway creates a halo of light around someone standing in the doorway.

It feels a lot like a dream, like maybe it's not real and he'll wake up later and laugh at how strange it is, but right now, the room fills with a weird sort of electricity, so much he can feel it crackle against his skin, slide between the sheets and run down to his toes underneath the blanket. The hair on his arms stands up on end, but he doesn't move; he can't move. The silhouette from the door is already approaching him, but he can't find it in himself to make any movement, to even breathe while they move closer.

He hasn't been touched by anyone not in his family in a long, long time; he barely even remembers who it was. It had to be someone in the final year of elementary school, the last year they let them play before enforcing the Rules. Then, they could still hold hands, make a circle and dance together and not be afraid to brush each other's hand in passing. Touching was meant for companions, to protect a person from becoming too close to someone they weren't assigned to.  _It was in their best benefit,_  their Watchers had explained. To  _protect_  them. Though Woohyun never saw how that was going to stop him from loving someone, he didn't have a choice; unsanctioned instances of touching was in strict violation of the Rules of the Republic. Too many and you were banished. It wasn't exactly something he was going to play around with.

But now, here's this person, this person sitting on the bed beside him, close enough he can feel the heat of their thigh through the blanket where their leg's sidled up next to his. Touching. It's such a bizarre concept to him, and he finds it more than a little strange that in hindsight they just expected everyone to be thrown together after not touching for so long and not be overwhelmed by the closeness. Not only that, but that despite everything, he still  _wants_  to be touched. He can't even see them clearly, but he can feel them, smell them, and the reality sets in that they're his. He's their's. This is the beginning of forever.

He tries to take a quick mental step back - shouldn't he be afraid? Timid maybe, reluctant or anxious to the point of paralyzation at these new feelings? It's true he can't move, but it's not fear; it's pure something, he's never felt it before, but it's electric, captivating. His companion's long, warm fingers run down his face, under his chin and across his neck, and he swallows audibly enough that it almost seems to echo in the chamber of the room.

One long finger runs along the collar of his tank top, dipping below the cloth to edge his collarbones, and he feels absolutely  _dirty_ , panting heavily. He hasn't even learned their name, can only see their profile in the dim light, but he wants them, very badly, a new sort of longing deep within he's never felt before but can only assume must be desire. Their touch is just as comforting as his mother's hands when he was a child, as arousing as his own in the throes of his most desperate nights, when his body called out for someone it didn't even know. He doesn't know them yet, but he's been prepared for this for a long time, prepared for them, and he gives himself up to it without a second thought. This system  _works_ ; they are 100% compatible, in every way. Why should he be afraid?

He remembers the first time he ever came on his sheets in the night, confused and concerned and young enough to tell his dad without any sense of embarrassment, because he had had no idea what was going on. The Watchers had already come to explain the Rules, at length, and how it may be difficult for them to abide by them and that they must try with all their might, but he didn't understand the connection. He didn't until the next year, when the boys in his class had smuggled in the contraband, a poorly-drawn manhwa not based on the stories of the Republic, like all the ones they were used to reading, but written in some other language, pages filled with grotesque faces, twisted in what he thought was torture. And yet, despite their agonies, they kept returning to one another, men and women meeting in such strange ways he never imagined, mouths not speaking but pressed to one another, legs tangled in a heap as they lay on top of each other. They had passed it around, looking at it in groups of twos and threes, discussing its meaning. Is this what happened if they touched each other? They weren't sure, and no one dared ask.

Of course, they had begun to piece it together, as time went on. The next year brought them lessons on reproduction, euphemistic as possible, and they had all connected that comic with the act of procreating. But surely, they had discussed in hushed voices, the people in the story hadn't been assigned the duty of childbearing, right? He hadn't learned the answer to that until the workshare training, when he had been specially approved to take a human sexuality and development course, and he had learned about the human need for contact, the intimacy of physical connections, and the evolutionary design of sexual acts. He had felt pity, for his friends who had gone on to be bankers or teachers or graphic designers, that they were never prepared for this.

Or so he had thought.

All those lessons, the manhwa and those classes, even the tidbits Boohyun had shared after he had been assigned his companion, none of them really allowed him to get an insight on what would happen. Because this, this is so much more. He moans, low and soft, and the noise surprises him; he wasn't aware that he was even capable of feeling something like this. But those hands are doing wild things to him, now fully under his top, twisting his nipples lightly, following the trail of hair on his stomach to the waistband on his pajamas. Things he never imagined, hunched over in bed late at night, one hand around himself and another in his mouth to keep his noises quiet.

The bed moves, the hand stilling right under the band of his pants, and he barely registers the click before light floods the room, making his eyes squeeze shut against the brightness. It takes a moment for them to adjust, blind for the moment, and he feels the fingers twitch under the elastic of his pajamas, followed by a strained "holy fuck."

His initial response is to flinch, negatively programmed to avoid it or be punished for using a forbidden word, but his eyes crack open and he pretty much  _forgets about thinking_. At all. And when he regains the ability, it's not even close to being about his companion using language that would get him marks in his profile.

He's seen a lot of attractive people in his life. People he had crushes on in middle school, fleeting moments of double-takes he did on the street, seeing a particularly striking person go by, someone he imagined himself with one day. But it has nothing,  **nothing** , on this, on the person before him. He can't even think straight; there's no defining thought of this feature being attractive or not. They're just breathtaking, plain and simple.  _Flawless_ , he manages to latch onto as words scatter like fireworks behind his eyes.

"Well, hi there," they say, rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip, and he shudders, making them smile. "They sure know how to pick 'em."

That gives him pause, even though he gets what they're saying (or, at least, he  _thinks_  he gets it.) Sure, they seem happy with him, too, but what a strange way of expressing that sentiment. Indeed, the smile doesn't disappear from their face as they continue to assess him, hands pulling his shoulders up to have him sit, and they're right in each other's face, breathing in the same air. And he's not sure, if it's the fact they're so close or that he can smell them here so potently, but he needs to press up into them, feels this urge to feel their lips against his, to taste them, and his body moves on its own accord, head turning without a thought.

He's close enough to feel their breath on his lips when a solid hand stops his shoulder, keeping him from moving anymore. It's gentle but firm, and he sits back a little, wondering if he pushed things too far, when they say something he definitely can't reconcile in his head.

"Sorry, baby, I don't kiss. It's a policy, you know?"

No, he definitely  _does not_  know. Like, they're never ever going to kiss him, ever? How would they even know, what it was like to kiss someone, to even compare? A policy? None of this is making sense.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

The guy  _smiles_ , and then pulls him in, tucking his head under their chin. "Oh, babe, I didn't want to upset you! It's not  _you_. I'm just saving it for my someone special, you know? I'm sure you understand."

He has to push them off, because he's just angry now. "Special? Are you saying I'm not special?"

He hates that they seem to think this is funny, that they're trying to coddle him as they grab for his hands, but he pushes away, scrambling off the bed. "Listen, babe-"

"Don't call me babe, I don't even know you!" The weight of the second statement flashes across his mind, about how seconds ago he was willing to throw all his inhibitions away and climb into bed with this stranger, but it dissolves in the fire of his fury.

"Sorry, sorry, okay, relax," they motion at him, infernal smile finally dying away. "I'm just saying, I try to separate my workshare and my life."

"What the hell are you talking about? What the hell do you do for your workshare?" Any discretion in watching his language has flown out the window, and now they look all flustered, eyebrows furrowing at him in frustration.

"Do you  _know_  who I am?" It comes out incredulous, that they really don't believe that this is happening to them right now.

"I have a bit of an idea, yeah," he replies sarcastically, ignoring the dumbfounded gawk they make at him. "Do you know who  _I_  am?" He doesn't know what they're playing at, but this is ridiculous, and he's starting to get really, really angry.

"I don't know, some guy the department sent. I can't believe you don't know who I am..."

"Some  ** _guy_**?" He throws his hands up, half-turning away, but he still sees them shrug roughly from the corner of his eyes, as if they suddenly are really unsure of what happened in the last ten minutes. "Just, I don't know, some random person in your bed? Not weird at all."

"I don't know, care-workers or whatever they call you guys! I don't ask questions, man, I just go with it, okay?"

He's literally never heard of that before, minus the people who's workshare it is to work in the Golden Years homes, taking care of old people. He's definitely not that, and even if he were, why would they send him to sleep in some random place? "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about," he tells them, feeling this whole situation desperately spiraling out of control.

They both stare at each other for a moment, leveling each other up, and his companion, or whoever the hell he is, finally whispers, "well, just exactly why are you here, then?", voice shaking as if they suddenly don't want to know, as if they're afraid of what he'll say.

This guy obviously thinks he's crazy too, but he can't stop the dubious look he gives them, looking around at their surroundings as if it doesn't give it away. He sees his favorite blanket thrown across a chair in the corner of the room, a photograph of his and his mom at the beach on the other nightstand. He thinks for a minute, as how best to say it, and he waves for them for follow him, waiting for them to give in, and he walks into the bathroom, pointing at his toothbrush.

"I live here."

They don't look at him directly at first, just at his profile, and the fear sinks away, boiling down to something almost annoyed, and they look at him with disdain, as if they've been through this whole thing before. "Look, I know you're staying here, but this is  _my_  living quarters."

"No, this is  _our_  living quarters. Look at the room. The bookcases. The closet. I live here, with you."

He can see them in the reflection of the mirror, leaning against the wall, and he sees the very moment it clicks, the very moment they realize exactly what he means, sees the color run from their face as they blanch, and he spins around as they sink against the wall, half-afraid they're going to pass out.

There are words they're really not supposed to say, words that will get them written up in their profiles, but there are some words that go even beyond that, words of past ideologies strictly forbidden at all costs by the Republic, but he almost doesn't blame them for using currently.

"Oh my fucking god."

Whatever is going on right now, something is very, very wrong here, and, yeah, _oh my fucking god_ is right.

 


	3. all my feelings arose today

There was a picture, right above the TV in the living room, of his first performance. He was 6 years old, swimming in an oversized sport coat undoubtedly donated many years before (if the design gave anything away); he didn't remember a lot from kindergarten, but that moment stands out, him in front of a too-high microphone and a hundred beaming parents. He was Mr. Im, the first president after the military coup, the hero of the nation that had led them out of despair and into a new era. He had won that role through his superior diction, the serious manner in which he had recited the lines in front of the class, his overall demeanor in general. He had overheard his Watchers before, talking to his parents. _T_ _his one will go far_ , and  _keep it up with your second son, and you'll spend your Golden Years in the best living quarters in the Capital_ . Everyone knew, from the very beginning, that he was going to make it. He was going to get out.

It had motivated him. That, and the thrill of winning roles, standing on stage, soaking up applause during the final bows. It felt so good, to be the center, to be in the spotlight. It came natural, and his Watchers let him choose his Aspiration Path by the time he was 12. He had proved himself.

Of course, it had been exceedingly difficult to reign in his innate sense of defiance. Not that he was a terrible kid; generally speaking, he did what his parents, his teachers, his Watchers expected of him. (When they were looking, that is.) And so what if didn't study his lines as much as he should have, slipping in some comics between the script pages? There were more than a few times he circled around on stage, trying to not shit his pants while he fumbled for the words on the tip of his tongue, but he never failed. And when he had pilfered his mom's old version of Macbeth, from before the coup, just to see how it compared to the heavily censored version they performed on stage nowadays, he never got caught (or his mother looked the other way; how could she scold him when it was her contraband to begin with?). He was smart, very smart, charming and handsome and crafty, and he could weasel his way out of anything, if the occasion called for it. He was  _untouchable_.

Until his first audition, that is.

Growing up in a satellite city, he had forgotten the lack of resources that were available to him. He sat in rooms with hundreds of boys that were better looking, taller, probably more talented than he could ever hope to be. They had come from the Capital, or at least the Special Districts, had gone to schools that were dedicated to arts, to producing the next face of the propaganda films, the new pride of the nation. He had come from a city where the best workshare one could really hope for was working on a manufacturing line, or perhaps being a office worker. He went from the face of the stage, the very heart of his productions to Cafe Patron #4, sitting on the left side of the screen.

Of course, his mom had been proud anyways. He had a tiny, teensy apartment that still afforded better rations and benefits than his parents combined workshares could even hope to achieve, and within a year, he had his first speaking role (even if it was a simple " _mwo_?" before he faded into the backdrop of the scene he got put in). But he got older, real quick, and life started passing him by. He moved up, for sure, getting more and more lines, little side bits here and there, but he wasn't  _making_  it. They had assigned him this work, and he wasn't achieving what they had expected.

His Watcher didn't say anything about being demoted, but the threat hung suspended around his head, constantly buzzing like a wasp, ready to sting. Demotion meant downgrading, back to the shoebox he started out in, maybe even back to the outskirts, the deadlands (as far as he was concerned). Workshare reassignment. Shame.  _Failure_. If he didn't make it, he'd never qualify for a companion. Never earn the right to have children. Never have a life worth living.

So he went into the bathroom, took the kitchen scissors and cut his hair like he saw the kids on the streets doing (damn what his Watcher said), and threw off the serious persona he had put on. He had wanted to work in the propaganda films, reenact the war heroes and battles he had grown up learning about, but it was crunch time now; he went to the daily show auditions now, shows his grandma would watch, shows he had scoffed at.

That's all it took. They took one look at his face, his overdone cheeriness and immature haircut and greasy antics as he flirted dangerously with the woman behind the table in the room, and it was settled. He got called back for a script reading with the female lead, and there it was: he'd made it. He got a role, a real, speaking, actual substantial role.

_Sort of_. It took a few months for the show to get big. For a while, at least, the worry still lingered, if the show would be canceled, if he'd be demoted. But once it did, it got  _big_. Big enough that he got to take his family to the mountains for the first time, to snowboard and ski on the empty slopes, constantly followed by their Watchers. He was his assigned his own Guide - no more waiting for his guide to finish taking someone else home. Now, whenever he wanted to go somewhere, wanted food, wanted  _anything_ , he got it, immediately.

He wasn't doing propaganda, like he had hoped. At least, not formally. His characters were always the same; men, dedicated to their workshares, dedicated to their parents, and, as the plot developed, their companions. Their children, as the story progressed, too. Dedicated to their country. He acted in romantic comedies, in sitcoms about the Type-A working mom matched with the quirky, nerdy chemist, or the gruff-but-loving factory-working dad, parent to two girly-girls and all their misadventures, playing out over the laugh track in the background. The formulas never changed, just the details of the characters. He couldn't help but wonder how everyone didn't get bored of it. Maybe it was the only thing they had to distract themselves from their own realities.

His success didn't earn him his companion, however. Three years after his big break, he was still holding his breath at the front door, wondering if today he'd open it and there'd be someone inside. He wanted to ask his co-workers, how long it had taken them, but socialization between them was heavily discouraged, minus discussion of the script. Watchers enforced it to a tee; fraternizing amongst anyone but the family was against the morality of the Nation. Only work could be discussed, to ensure no one became too close, which could lead to a whole host of issues (according to the Watchers).

And so he waited, and waited, and waited, less and less patiently, even while his mom reminded him he was barely 25 years old (even if most people did qualify for their companions by 21). Maybe his companion hadn't fulfilled their workshare yet.  _There is nothing to worry about_ , she said, on an increasingly frequent basis. He just had to wait.

He didn't see any other option, really.

* * *

The first time, they sat him down and told him how it was going to be.

He'd gone to the studio, ready to begin the first day of script readings, when he had walked into the board room, expecting the cast and getting his Watcher, the director, and someone he'd never met before, looking serious as they motioned for him to sit.

"Mr. Lee, it's good to see you," the director had said, obviously hoping to calm his visible nerves. "Please, don't worry, you're not in trouble; in fact, we're here to discuss a very exciting possibility for you."

A group like this sitting you down for a discussion usually meant a swiftly-forthcoming lecture or something else even more fun, no matter what they said to waylay your fears. All he could was to nod politely, trying to remain calm, as they had started discussing this next project.

"Now, Mr. Lee, I know this isn't your first time in a lead role, but, uhm, the Department was hoping to guide you in this new role. That is, seeing as you'll be-"

Mystery Man had cleared his throat at the moment, cutting the director off, and all three of them had cut their eyes to him, aware of the severity of his posture and the fact he was about to say something he at least thought was important. That's always how the black suits acted, at least in his experience; butting in whenever they felt like it, telling him and everyone else how to be. He supposed it came with the job, being so involved in the propaganda department and how much the government interacted with his daily work, but it always rubbed him the wrong way.

"You'll be playing a newly-matched husband. This program is targeting those in the range of just being matched or preparing to be matched- mainly, 17 to 21-year-olds. It needs to sell. It needs to be authentic. If this is not successful, you're being demoted to cleaning bathrooms on some island resort. The ones where people go to let loose and get drunk and piss and vomit everywhere like animals. Got it?"

It had taken a lot to not tell him to fuck off, but the warning of scrubbing toilets didn't seem like an idle threat, and he had bowed his head politely, gritting his teeth until he felt that they'd crack. He got asinine advice all the time; just another piece of crap to add on the pile.

"No, don't just bow your head at me. You're going to be working overtime for this role, kid. Receiving instruction on how to act, as a matched man-"

"Yeah, how is someone going to instruct me on that, exactly?" The director and his Watcher's eyes had snapped to him, shocked at his disrespect, but he saw Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass smirk, liking his fire a little bit, apparently.

"You don't worry about that. When they come to instruct you, you'll follow their lead. But do  _not_  screw this up, or you're done."

He'd tried to keep his cool as the guy left, as everyone filed in and taken their seats, but it had bothered him during the whole reading. What exactly did he need instruction in? He'd played a matched man a few times, euphemistic scenes that cut away right before a kiss, scenes spliced together to coyly explain how exactly the duty of childbearing had happened. It was all tame; though they were specifically allowed to touch, to portray an accurate depiction of how a real match would act, even the government didn't allow much more than held hands, side hugs, moments where they were face to face, staring into one another's eyes before the director yelled "cut!" and they jumped away from one another, Watchers nodding approvingly at the distance maintained. He didn't know how many people he embraced, looked lovingly at; they barely even spoke to one another. They were prime suspects for being tempted, according to the watchdogs who prowled around the set; the Rules were strictly enforced when the cameras weren't on.

He'd let the idea slip into the back of his mind as the day went on, adding onto the pile of things he had to worry about, and by the time his Guide dropped him off at his living quarters, he'd quite nearly forgotten about any lessons or whatever they were dropping on him.

In fact, he couldn't figure out for the life of him why there was a woman sitting at his kitchen table, drinking his coffee out of his coffee cup. A new Watcher, perhaps? No, it was way beyond sleeping hours, they'd all be at home.

He had panicked for a moment, thinking she was his match, hoping with all his might that she wasn't. But she seemed almost too relaxed, watching him stare at her, as if she didn't have a care in the world other than to sit at his table, drinking coffee all night. Surely, if she were, she'd have a little more reaction.

He could have asked who she was, why she was here, but all he could think was to ask "why are you drinking coffee during sleeping hours?" He had mentally kicked himself almost immediately, feeling wholeheartedly stupid for asking something like that, but she had just smiled, raising her cup to him and winking.

"I'm going to need it, Lee Sungyeol. We have a long night ahead of us."

_Oh, wait,_  he had thought,  _so she's the instructor, then_? He couldn't imagine why'd they send an instructor to his living quarters, alone, during sleeping hours, but before he could even ask, she'd thrown down a letter his way, sliding it across the table for him to read.

He couldn't help but laugh. It had to be a joke, that the director and Mystery Man would jump out from behind the couch and yell "surprise!" For her part, she'd just sat there, sipping her coffee with one eyebrow quirked at him, while he dabbed at the corner of his eyes, placing the letter down on the table with great care as if he meant to frame it later, just to preserve the memory of this.

"You're kidding. You must be. You're telling me that, according to this letter," he'd said, flourishing to it absentmindedly, "you and the whole department have conspired to teach me how to act, uhm, intimately, with your apparent assistance, and that, despite breaking numerous rules, including  _the_  Rules, this is somehow going to benefit the country through my successful portrayal of a romantic lead. Am I wrong in anything?"

"No," she had said, still smiling. "Sounds about right."

That's where it had started to become real to him, and instead of being excited, like he always thought he would be when faced with the idea of touching someone without limits, he had had a queasy feeling in his stomach as she eyed him up and down. For her part, despite her impeccable manners, she looked at him like a job, a target and not a living, breathing, feeling person, and maybe that's why he shuddered when she had stood up and run her hands over his cheeks.

He couldn't very well say no. The letter made it explicitly clear exactly what he was supposed to learn, how she was to teach him to embrace a woman, to look into someone's eyes with longing and affection, but he couldn't force it, not even invoking all the things he had learned in his acting workshops. He shied away from her touches, feeling awkward, stiff, much more so than with the women he had held in front of a camera, and she had finally sat back, eying him critically but not with contempt.

"This just isn't doing it for you, is it?" she had sighed, stroking his hair. He hadn't had the will to answer; maybe she had meant it rhetorically. But she had continued without any response from him, fingers twisting a strand of his hair round and round while she had thought.

"Do you ever feel something, when you touch the actresses you work with?" He had had to think about that; was he supposed to? It was a job, plain and simple. Nothing more.

"No?"

"I see. When's the last time you had a crush on someone?"

There were times he had wondered if the department was testing him, questioning his loyalty to the Republic and its' values. Crushes were understandable parts of life, his teachers had told them, but something that must be controlled, or contained. It was a flaw, to openly act upon a crush. Crushes were temptations, distracting someone from their match, and acting upon one was a sign of weakness.

Naturally, the Watchers had always said they could speak openly to them about their crushes, about how they were maintaining their feelings, but no one he knew growing up would ever have fallen for that. The ones that got found out were watched incessantly, mistrusted by anyone of authority within a 100-meter radius. Parents were informed. Teachers kept a watchful eye. His natural ability to act (or, more accurately,  _lie_ ) had prevented him from being found out when questions got a little tense about his friends and classes, and he had always been extremely grateful for that.

But no way in  _hell_  was he going to open up to this stranger; for all he knew, she was one of them.

"I never had one."

"Hon," she laughed widely, showing her back teeth "we all had one. Or more. I'm not passing this on to anyone else. I'm probably more trustworthy than anyone else you'll meet. They pay me well to keep my legs open and my mouth shut. Republic integrity and all."

He hadn't understood what she'd meant, about being paid to keep her legs open, but he had relaxed a little, regardless. He was an actor, living every day breathing acting in and out, surrounded by the country's best (or second-best, at least), and she was too open, too relaxed with him to be lying.

"I never learned his name. He was a year older; we had gym together. Well, they kept the classes separated mostly, but I could see him, running by or shooting hoops. He was simply the most beautiful person I had ever seen. I was fascinated."

She had smiled again, but this time it had been sincere, eyes mellowing as her fingers had stopped, strand of hair dropping back down.

He didn't really remember what she had said after that, giving her excuses as she had hugged him goodbye, but he remember the intense relief when her Guide had knocked on the door. Whatever the goal had been, they'd obviously missed it, but he didn't care at all; for the first time in his life, he was happy to be alone.

* * *

No one had said anything. Mystery Man hadn't reappeared; the director hadn't pulled him aside. Any fear of punishment died out as the week went on, and he had written the whole crazy thing off as they got closer to filming.

It was so on the back burner that he had faltered at the new stranger sitting on his bed, scrolling through their phone distantly without a second glance at him. Had his apartment turned into bizarro world? Was this yet another joke, played on him by someone, the crew maybe?

"Uh, hello?"

The guy had looked up, unbothered, and stretched out his legs slowly, untangling himself from the blankets to stand up and make his introductions before sinking down on the bed again.

"Hi. Hoya."

"Hoya?"

"My name."

"That's really your name?"

Hoya had shrugged one shoulder, half-smirking at him like it was an answer. He wasn't an idiot, wasn't so oblivious that he didn't know why this Hoya guy was here, in the middle of his bedroom without a shirt on, sitting on his bed and staring at him with that look. But that still hadn't stopped him from jerking when Hoya had walked to stand in front of him, top of his head barely meeting his chin but somehow overpowering him completely.

"You haven't touched many people, have you?" Hoya had asked, as the muscles of his stomach had contracted when two sets of fingers had drifted under his shirt and across the planes of his abs. His knees had buckled when Hoya had circled his nipples, even as his ego had swelled.

"I've touched plenty of people."

Hoya had stopped for just a breath, just enough time to give him a skeptical, judgmental examination through narrowed eyes, and then he had continued on, running his nose across his jawline, nuzzling close. "How many people have you touched, that you  _wanted_  to touch?"

He had thought about that later, his head draped over the edge of the bed and parts of himself in Hoya's mouth that downright scandalized him. How many people had they had him touch? How many times had he broken the Rules, for the sake of the Republic and its people? Before now, he'd done what he must, but after this, feeling this, he wasn't sure he could go back.

_Think of me_ , is what Hoya had said, right before he had left. He wasn't even sure what that meant. Of course, he'd never forget the way he had felt, never ever, but how was this supposed to help him?

* * *

Jiyeon had exactly nothing in common with Hoya, except the fact they both came to about the same place when they pressed their head against his chest. Jiyeon was all soft and long-haired and gentle, the day to the dark, rough, rugged night of Hoya. The director had yelled cut again and again, calling for more passion, more emotion from both, but he couldn't pull it out of himself.

He tried to recall the feelings Hoya had drawn out of him, but it ended up with him sitting off by himself, fighting a raging hard-on. If it were Hoya, someone like Hoya, he could go right over, embrace them without restraint. But Jiyeon was part of his job, a job that required him to take all he felt and transform it into something else.

"One more time!" the director had called, and he barely even looked at Jiyeon's face. If he did, the illusion would be lost; all he could think now was Hoya's hands under his shirt, the tip of his tongue measuring the hollow in his throat, and he adjusted his pants once, stepping back on to the stage and into the light.

He could see the director's arms waving, as if to say " _more, more_ " as he stroked a thumb across Jiyeon's cheekbone, tilting her head back to appear as if were looking into her eyes. He had stared right past the top of her head, though he could see her at the bottom of his vision, see her lips part and pupils blossom as his hand snuck around her waist, not unlike when he had pulled Hoya closer to him.  _Think of me_ , indeed.

He didn't necessarily believe that type of portrayal had been his success, even after the country started going wild about the story of "Kaeun and Jonghyun" and he and Jiyeon made the rounds on talk shows, talking about how dedicated they were to the Republic and portraying realistic, upstanding citizens. But the calls had come in, wanting him for this project and that, and the men had kept coming too, never with warning, but with enough routine he wasn't surprised any longer. He'd get a new script, and within a week, someone would be there, on his couch, in his bed. After a while, he wondered if these men were teachers anymore, a refresher of sorts, or simply rewards. He was hot, in demand, face plastered on posters and magazines, the It Man of the Year.

Everyone else measured his success as at its peak. He lived in the best of the best, ate the best of the best; even if he never got another role, his parents' future had already been set at the nicest Golden Years home. He had everything; the juniors in the background, the guys he had been not so long ago, had flocked to him, asking him how he did it, how his performance was so authentic.

Not that he could tell them. Mystery Man had shown up, after his big success, to congratulate him, this time with another threat.

"Your instructors, as you might have already guessed, are a secret. I'm sure, seeing as you're a smart kid and always have been, that you know  _why_  they are a secret. If you tell anyone, a family member, your companion, about it, there will be severe consequences. Am I understood?"

Well, no, not really.

"You're saying that I'm supposed to keep this a secret from the people who I am closest to in my life, including the person who I am supposed to share everything with, when I qualify for them?"

Dumbfounded. That's the only word he could think to use to explain this. How in the hell was he supposed to keep this from the one true companion to his soul, for their entire lives? He'd literally been taught since day one everything,  _everything_  was supposed to be shared.

"Imagine how'd they feel if-"

"-they realized I got to break the Rules, numerous times, essentially invalidating all they'd been told about companions and the specialness of touching," he'd finished, understanding the whole thing but feeling very sick all of the sudden. It's not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind, but he'd already constructed a full explanation for his invisible companion, how to explain why.

"I'm glad you understand. This is very serious. If you cannot maintain this secret...you're putting the government at risk."

He just wished the government cared about his relationships being at risk as much as they wanted him to care about their secrets being confidential. Too bad it never worked like that.

* * *

Someone finally calls about a movie part, a real, true role about being a soldier in the Battle of Ulsan, and he cries, unabashedly, into the phone when he calls to tell his mom.

He dries off the tears by the time he reaches the mountains outside the city, to meet the director, shooting preliminary screen tests on the very same places battles raged not 30 years before. He touches the bullet holes remaining in the trees in the valley as he walks around, and it makes his chest swell. He's made it, truly, really made it.

The director is a stern-looking veteran who glances him over once and says "cut your damn hair" with no further attempts at communicating (this, they tell him, means he's been approved of). The cameras are the same, the Learners scurrying back and forth, absorbing as much as they can. The department lackeys around here and there. But it feels so much more real to him, so much more genuine. Yes,  _yes_. This is it.

He gets back to Seoul when the sun's barely about to come up. The adrenaline, the excitement of the trip means he won't be sleeping anytime soon, but he doesn't mind. He has three weeks to train here in Seoul before they'll call him back out to start shooting, and he can sleep until 2 pm everyday if he wants, so long as he gets his eight hours of studying and practicing in. No worries.

The pair of shoes outside his shoe cabinet throw him off - someone's here, someone new. He can't help but grin to himself; it's been three months since his last 'visitor', and he's been feeling lonesome in the meantime. He can't help but think he  _does_  deserve to be rewarded, doesn't he? He slides off his shoes next to this new guest, liking the symmetry of the set.

They're passed out on his bed, and he doesn't blame them. It's after 5, the sky an inky black before the first streaks of light will come through, but the moon shines enough to see two hazy eyes following him as he walks towards the bed. If they plan on waking up, well, all the better for him.

It's been a long time. That's why he's letting his hands go wild, keeping an eye on their face as he rucks up their shirt to get under it. It's defintely not because he feels like he's melting, a little more quickly as the time goes on. This person is an inferno, but he wants to fall into it. It's feral, in a way, what he feels. Like a touching bliss, at his fingertips. Who is this guy?

He switches the light on, because he knows they're fully awake, quaking at his hands, and he forgets the world for just a minute. He falls in love every time, just for a minute, usually about a millisecond after he's fully in them, but it always fades away by the end, and he departs from them without a second thought. But this time, he could really go off the deep end. They're just so perfect, the way they look, the way they feel under his hands, the way they smell  _so damn good_. He wants to devour them, possess them and consume them, completely.

He has to draw the line when they try to kiss him; he could really lose himself tonight. He doesn't mean to be a tease, but his need for self-preservation is only so much stronger than the will to feel this guy's obscene mouth against his, and he has to fight it off or lose. And if he loses, he's going to lose a lot.

He doesn't expect them to get so upset, to start saying all these crazy things, but when they drag him along, pointing to their stuff spread around his place, he sinks to the ground. He fucked up. Big time. Not only has he already alienated his match (oh fuck this is his companion, his fucking soulmate and he already fucked up after waiting his whole life for this fuckfuckfuck), but he did exactly what they told him not to, and he didn't even mean to. Fuck fuck fuck-

"Oh my fucking god."

They look at him abysmally, as if those words aren't close to describing the situation. He fucked up. God, did he fuck up.

* * *

The sun streaks through the window above his tub, but he hasn't moved. They left after a while, but he knows they're sitting right outside the door, heard the leather of the armchair squeak as they sat down. He can hear them breathing, hear it stop for a moment as if they're holding their breath before it starts up again.

He wants to go say sorry, but it feels wrong. What is he even apologizing for? "Hey, sorry I thought you were a person assigned to have sex with me"? Or maybe, "hey, sorry you lived by the Rules for so long only for me to throw it on you I didn't have to"?

He realizes after a while that he was the fucking first person, the first person to ever touch them and he pushed them away. God, he didn't even know but he had seen it, had seen how close they had wanted to be to him, how they had leaned in, and he had pushed them off. Basically laughed it off in their face.

He fights back and forth with himself, blaming himself and then the department. If they had just told him, given him a warning...how was he supposed to diffrentiate them from all the others? This is their fault, wait, no, it's his fault, if he had just-

No, this is his match's fault, too. If he had just announced himself, then...maybe. Maybe it would have been different.

The mental olympics take their toll, and he's exhausted by the time he drags himself up and out of the bathroom. His stomach leaps again, when he sees them, just as perfect and yet it's all tarnished, this image he has of them. Like a beautiful portrait someone's ripped through with a knife.

"I'm Sungyeol, by the way. In case you didn't, uh, know." They barely acknowledge him, but he guesses they've heard him. They really don't seem to know who he is, but he doesn't have the willpower to be offended over that at the moment. "And, uh, you?"

The look they give him seems to say they'd rather kill him than speak to him, and he throws up his hands. This isn't his fault, he's decided; they shouldn't blame him for something that was an accident.

"Okay, well, you're stuck here with me from here on out, so you might want to get used to-"

"I'm applying for dissolution, as soon as possible." They stare at him openly when they say it, like it's a threat, or maybe a curse, thrown into his face like revenge or something.

No, no no no, they  _can't_. Cannot. That is not an option.

"You can't, we'll be demoted! Like, really, really demoted."

They shrug, and he wants to go over and shake them so badly. Dissolution is sign of failure, essentially spitting on the gift the Republic has given you, and he will be  _ruined_  if that happens. Forever. There could be no coming back for a propaganda star who can't even live by the values of the Republic.

"You really want to go back to the beginning, back to the bottom, maybe even lower than that? You could be here, or you could be living in a coffin somewhere, eating scraps for food and hating every moment of it?" he says, trying to sound like he's warning them but coming off pleading. 24 hours ago he would have said he was at the top of the world, and now it seems like he's set to tumble from the top all the way down.

"Better there alone than here with you."

It takes a lot, everything really, to not get angry, because he's one of the best matches a person could have in the entire Republic, but he doesn't want to lose them for some reason, whoever they are, and he's frantic, trying to latch on to something that can steady him, can steady them.

"Don't you want to be loved? They'll never assign you to someone else. You know that." It's desperate, but they tilt their head towards him a little, as if they're thinking about it.

"You saying you love me?"

"I can. I will." And him, despite being who he is, he really believes that. He's never thought about love before, not really, but suddenly, the idea of losing it seems so miserable, like it's the worst thing in the world. Yes, if they leave, he'll lose everything to, but he wants to believe that he wants them to stay because they are them, for that reason alone.

They remain silent for a while, eyes nearly closing as they lean their head back against the wall, and he can only sit there and wait. They laugh once, and then shrug again, at seemingly nothing this time.

"Yeah? You seem to be good at it, right?"

This is going to be harder than he ever thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was a bit rushed! Hopefully it's not too terrible :x
> 
> I'm moving soon, hence the lack of updates; hopefully within a week I'll be settled and updating regularly


	4. like a hammer, hell, to my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this update is so late. Sorry about that.

Kim Kibum's door slams open, and it's not exactly how he envisioned he'd start his Thursday morning.

Worse things have happened to the door, to be certain. Paperweights thrown full-force in its direction (the indents in the wood remain as proof). People slammed up against it. A few stray punches here and there, thrown in anger and resulting in a quick visit to the emergency room. If it weren't for the confidential nature of his workshare in general, he might have considered having the thing removed, so only to prevent the casualty to person and object that seemed to occur throughout various circumstances he encountered from day to day. All in a day's work, or something like that.

Still, when he gets a good look at  _who_  exactly it was that threw it open, he freezes in surprise, coffee cup hovering halfway between the desk and his mouth. Not that he never expected this to happen (if anything, he's been waiting for him to snap for  _years_ ), but, well, keeping in mind recent events, this is a teensy bit of a surprise, all things considered.

"Please tell me the reason you're wildly throwing open my door is to excitedly fill me in on every last detail of what was surely the most amazing 72 hours of your life," he says reasonably, as if that is the  _only_  possible explanation for early morning exercises in causing a commotion.

"Shut up."

It's something that's said between them, often; often enough it slips into their everyday conversations, usually followed by a shove or slap, and then they laugh in each other's faces just to rub it in. That is  _not_  how it's used now. No, now it's used as a threat, a warning, and Kibum sits back, eyeing his visitor critically.

"You...promised. You  **all**  promised. No no, I'm sorry- you  _lied_. About everything."

It's not the first time he's had these words thrown at him, had the responsibility placed on him like it was he who somehow intentionally and ruthlessly brought together two people to be miserable. He's been begged, pleaded with, bribed - if believing in a deity weren't illegal, he might consider opening his own house of worship, the power people apparently believe he has.

It comes with the territory. He didn't exactly go through years of workshare training, earn honors with distinction and became the protege and future successor of the most renowned specialist in the whole Republic just to have an easy life. A comfortable life, for certain. But nothing about this work is by any means uncomplicated, and routinely becoming the scapegoat is just another aspect he's come to live with.

( _That doesn't mean he's exactly been educated on how to be the proverbial punching bag for his best friend_ ).

Particularly when he doesn't know  _why_  he's being targeted here. Obviously, he's unhappy, and almost uncertainly unhappy about one very specific thing, but Kibum's never seen this before, not like this. Reluctance, timidness, aloofness, perhaps uncertainty, yes, but never, ever pure rage, not this early.

"Hm- well, what do I even begin to say? I mean, I'm honored that I'm important enough to apparently have ruined your whole life and-"

"I am not fucking laughing, Kibum! How dare you make a joke out of this?" The anger rolls off his body like tidal waves, enough that Kibum's body naturally prepares itself for an episode he's been taught to defend himself against all those years ago in training. His spine straightens out, hands clenching into fists, but his mind fairly screams no at him, reminding him of who's standing before him. He's not going to hurt him. Not him. Never, ever him. This is Woohyun. Quite nearly his closest confidant, someone beloved to him. A part of him he needs to survive, a part of his very heart. Friend, not enemy.

The hardest part of this workshare, Kibum's always found, is the inability to turn off the process of psychoanalyzing every person he meets, but even more, the people he works with every single day. There are 60 of them, industrial psychologists and clinical psychologists and researchers and emeritus staff and Learners and everyone in-between, and he'd bet his dog that every single one of them has a running list about every other person on this floor. They all took the same basic courses, understand at least enough about everyone's specification, and they all carry this undercurrent amongst their conversations, the creeping thoughts on the tips of their tongues that yearn to point out that they've noticed this or that recently, or ask how are they coping with certain circumstances. It's always there.

But Woohyun is a completely different situation. This isn't just someone he's worked with for the last six years. This is someone he's learned with, grown with, traveled and explored and enjoyed life with, learned in and out and backwards and upside down; he knows him nearly as well as his knows himself. He could write a case study, on his egomaniacal self-consciousness, on his barely maintained ability to abide by the values of the Republic, the deep streak he has within in him to please everyone, even people he doesn't like, which he barely even realizes he does. The idiosyncrasies of Nam Woohyun are always suspended around his head, circling around like a mobile with all the little parts of him on display.

He whines and nags, is sometimes easily offended, but he rarely, rarely goes off like this - there are other ways he lets someone know how he feels, and he doesn't resort to threats, screaming or yelling and definitely not cursing. Cursing is a Republic no-no, and the goody two-shoes within him desperately cannot handle the pressure of feeling like he's failing, even failing a system he inherently disagrees with. So this,  _all of this_ , is a frigid, bucket-of-ice-water-over-his-head kind of shock. Words from an old textbook jump out at him, about sudden changes in personality and the causes, reactions to stress and trauma. His mind begins analyzing, diagnosing before he can even stop it.

Woohyun's been gone for three days. He couldn't have been sick; they'd come screen the whole department if he was sick enough to miss more than just a day of work. No one's passed away in his family (he'd know, immediately), and he already took his vacation days earlier in the year. That leaves not much else besides seclusion; he knew from the very beginning of Woohyun's unexplained absence that had to be it. And that means, at 25 years of age, Woohyun's finally qualified for his companion, something he's been waiting for for a very long time. Something that everyone's saw plaguing the corners of his mind, as time passed and everyone around him left him behind; something everyone wondered about, the reasons why it was taking so long and what is his fault or not. He's wanted this, desperately, wholeheartedly, yearned and strived for it, and yet...

He looks so broken down, so bitter, it  _couldn't_  have happened. This is not how this happens (at least, not in the beginning). Woohyun should be exhilarated, fairly bursting with happiness, and he would, he would come in and slam that door open and talk his ear off until he had to push him out by force. That's how happy Kibum expected him to be, and yet he's not. He's not even  _close_  to that. He's irrational (more so than normal), and he's demanding an explanation, one that Kibum's not sure he can give, one he's having trouble even trying to comprehend. He can only try to figure out  _what_  he's so irrational about. Something is very, very wrong here.

"Tell me." It's a demand, but he softens his voice, relaxing his face as he motions for Woohyun to sit down and feeling grateful when he doesn't fight that, at least. Woohyun collapses wordlessly, grabbing the nearest pillow to dig his face into, and Kibum freezes, ears straining to hear if he's crying or not.

The pillow drops, revealing Woohyun's clear eyes, but there's such a overwhelming distance in them, he almost wishes Woohyun were crying instead. He has no manual on how to alleviate the fears and concerns on someone returning from their seclusion anything less than completely exuberant, and to add to the fact that person is closer to him than nearly anyone, he's already compromised in how he can approach this. He's never seen this in his life; people fuck up in their relationships, mostly years into their union, but never now.  _What in the hell happened?_

"Woohyun..." Woohyun gives him that look, that one he knows so well, that says "don't you dare pity me", but he can't very well help it. Woohyun can be dramatic, at best, but there's no ulterior motive here, no consolation for his emotions or battles to be won. He's just utterly, completely devastated, and Kibum has no idea what to even say.

"Tell me?" He tries to reiterate the command, but it comes out question, as if he doesn't even want to know the details himself but him steeling himself if Woohyun wants to open up, and Woohyun shrugs, avoiding his eyes as he gets up.

"I need to get to work," he says, feet dragging under the weight of his body. "I'll get in trouble if they find me in here." And with that, the door closes, soft and light in such a stark comparison to how it had opened.

 _God fucking dammit_  is all he can think.

* * *

He doesn't have the time of day to think about this disaster. He has enough problems piling up on his desk on a regular basis, and now he's three days behind. (And when the thoughts come creeping in, on what he did on those three days, he shakes his head violently, trying to scatter the memories in every direction besides within him).

It's barely even 7:30 am on this shitty morning and he's already in with one Watcher, two parents, and one very exasperated looking speech pathologist. He loves what he does, loves his branch and all the patients he works with, but he cannot  _stand_  the parents. These two are already eagerly fighting for the top of his shit-list today (which, at this point, is quite a challenge, but they're trying their damnedest), bickering loudly amongst themselves before he can even greet them properly.

Child psychopathology was supposed to be about the children, and for the most part it is. Nothing feels better than seeing a child every week, seeing how they progress and grow, how they turn into the people they're supposed to be; that's exactly why he chose this field, because he remembers how daunting it was to try to become who he is today. But when the kids aren't around, and it's just him and the parents, he has to really weigh the benefits of not being banished to the Outer Lands for strangling one of them.

Usually, when parents would fight in front of him, he'd make a running list of things to do, chores to finish at home and if he had time for his Guide to drop him off at the track for him to run around for a while before returning to his living quarters, but now, watching these two people go at it like two people going to war, his mind begins to turn, and he can't drag his eyes away from them. Is this what it looks like, then? Is this what  _they_  look like (he mentally stumbles over 'they' again, still feeling the foreignness of it roll around in his mind)? His parents never really fought, not really, and even the people at school and work always kept it civil when they disagreed. But this is how they must have been for the last three days, constantly digging into each other and pushing to see how far they could go, laceration-like words meant to wound thrown out without a care. It makes him feel sick.

"Anyway," the speech therapist interrupts, louder than normal to be heard over the bickering, "Jooyeon sees me once a week. However, she does not participate in her speech lessons. In fact, I haven't been able to even assess the level to which her speech will need to be corrected, as I cannot get her to speak. From what her parents say, it's a pronounced impediment, but..."

"Well, if  _someone_  had just agreed to let her be medicated..."

Everyone pauses for a moment, just a second, but it feels like an eternity to Woohyun. The clock ticks once on the wall behind him, and then-

"She's five, Hongchul. Five! I'm not willing to-" The retort is so loud, people in the nearby offices must be hearing this, and aren't they embarrassed? They are adults and they're acting like this and, oh god, this is what he was like too, wasn't it? This was exactly what it was like.

"Well, of course you're not willing, or we wouldn't be here-"

" **Stop it**."

Everyones' eyes snap to him, and he has to take a moment to breathe before he starts yelling too. He's never lost his cool with a patient, not even when kids have been tearing apart his office in a rage, not when parents come with their minds already closed to his ideas, but now, he can't take it.

"Look, Mrs. Yoon, I understand your concerns. Trust me, my foremost goal with any patient is to find suitable treatment without medicating them. However, Jooyeon's anxiety is preventing her from developing as she should, and her previous cognitive-behavioral therapy has only slightly helped this far. This isn't just a spoiled child. This isn't just insecure attachment, or separation anxiety. This is a real, defined anxiety disorder." He doesn't miss the look of complete shock from Mrs. Yoon and the look of near-amusement from her husband, but he feels anything but vindicated. "Now, you two can continue bickering until the end of time, or you can finally listen to the specialist, not to even mention the various teachers, Watchers, and doctors, that have been telling you for months she needs this. Your choice. We'll discuss your options next time; until then, I have nothing more to say to you that won't be a  _complete_  waste of all of our time. "

And with that, he gets up and leaves without so much as a goodbye, slamming the door behind him and only belatedly realizing being outside of the safe haven of his office is the exact  _last_  place he wants to be. Still, he can't exactly just go back in there, not unless he wants to get down on his hands and knees and apologize for what was surely the most unprofessional moment of his whole entire life (and frankly, he'd rather just be sent to the Outer Lands as this point). He has no other choice but to stalk off, trying to find a deserted hide-out where one of his damn co-workers won't corner him and ask about his recent seclusion and new companion (because it's obvious where he's been, and they're  _all_  going to realize it and ask the moment they see him, every last goddamn one of them).

He used to be a different person, just 72 hours ago (but that might as well be a lifetime ago now). He would never, ever have lost his patience with a client like that before, never. He doesn't know how many classes he took, all of them talking about how the home was the beginning and end of one's life, the center of gravity that kept someone stable, how the Republic had designed the whole System to perfect the quality of life everyone experienced. And yet here he is, about as far away from that as possible. This is all  _his_  fault. If only he weren't-

 _What? Weren't what?_  another part of his mind throws out, and he falters for a moment in response.

He doesn't know how to answer to that.

* * *

The first thing he learned about his companion was the fact they couldn't accept the blame for, well, anything. (And if he had to guess and be honest, the first thing his companion learned about him was probably the fact he could kind of fall into dramatics at the drop of a hat).

He hadn't necessarily meant it when he said they should get their union dissolved - but he hadn't necessarily  _not_  meant it either. It was a viable option, considering the circumstances. After obeying every rule, pushing every boundary and being pushed back to the line again and again, threatened and targeted, here he was, his very companion essentially flaunting his disobedience (was it even disobedience if he was apparently  _encouraged_  to not obey all the values of the Republic?) in his face.

Whether it was jealousy or not (and he wasn't about to admit it was), he felt it justified to be upset. His whole world fell apart for a moment, everything he'd been led to believe about love and honor to the Republic shattered in a second, and no one could blame him for being devastated, and angry. No one.

Minus, of course, the person sitting across the room from him, shooting him looks somewhere between apologetic and annoyed.

"I think you should let me explain."

The look he had sent back must have said a lot, because they'd thrown their hands up in frustration and he instantly been reminded of the children he worked with, the ones who would fight with everyone until the end of time, just to deflect their own fear of accepting they were wrong.

"Are you afraid, of admitting that you've messed up?" he had asked, and he'd seen the instant denial fly up on their face before they managed to stop it.

"I didn't mess up!" they had tried to defend, but he had been ready for them, seen the denial ready on their lips. Too many years, of watching kids and parents and everyone in between lie and try to escape and make excuses. It was something he couldn't turn off; the assessment had already begun, of who he was and what excuses he had reconciled to himself.

"Oh I'm sorry, I forgot that it was totally acceptable to confuse your perfect companion for, I don't even know, someone who is assigned by someone to come...consummate your- consummate something that was supposed to be between just you and me!" And then all the logical responses he had formed while he had sat in that chair right outside of the bathroom waiting for them to come about, all the ways he was going to shut them down, justify his feelings, all of them disappeared into thin air, and he could feel himself lose his own grip on his composure and feel the tired, desolate confusion of raw emotion fill in the empty space. "That was for us and you, from what you're saying- I don't even understand this. I was told you were mine and I was yours but now I'm yours and you're mine but you're someone else's too and why would you do this?"

The look in their eyes had made something in him come undone, and he realized when the first heaving rack of a sob paralyzed his chest that they looked like that because he must have been crying that whole time. It was something he didn't want to give to him, always wanting to come off hard and stoic instead of collapsing in upon his own sadness, but that's what he was: not just angry (and he was very angry), but sad, incredibly sad for reasons he couldn't have even put words to. Nothing made sense, the concepts didn't even fit into the whole scheme of the world he had come to be taught in his life, and yet it still hurt  _so damn bad_.

"They told me I should do it. Well, they told me I must do it. I didn't have a choice." Their voice had been almost meek, and every second that passed turned their face into something more sorry, more apologetic, and he almost believed their sadness, too, but it wasn't any consolation to him.

"You had a choice." It almost didn't even matter, the point he was arguing, but he just couldn't let it go. He could not get over it. He needed answers, not excuses, real explanations to stick in the cracks of his shattering world and make it whole again.

"And if you had been me, would you have made that choice? If they told you this is what you're going to do to succeed, and it worked, and they kept doing it, kept insisting, would you have sent them away? Would you have said no to the people who make the decisions to maintain your position and not demote you? Would you have risked the punishment of saying no?"

He knew, without a doubt, that if their positions had been changed, if he had been this person before him and not Nam Woohyun, he would have made the same decision without a second thought. In a way, he'd been trying to make the same choices his whole life, to bypass and circumvent, toeing over that invisible line as much as possible until looking eyes made him snap back to the safe side. He hated him, just a little, not only for the insult he'd placed upon him, not only for the disloyalty he felt even if he would have done the same. They were everything he had tried to be, and somehow they were rewarded for living above the values of the Republic. They had shattered literally every notion of he had been taught over the last 25 years, and there was no way he wasn't going to hate them for that.

"What do you even do, that requires you this...allowance?" The silence had been deafening, waiting for them to respond, and he began to worry about what the answer really would be in the meantime. What exactly had he gotten into here?

"I'm...Lee Sungyeol. The actor? I've been on about every major daytime drama in the last three years..."

He hadn't missed their incredulity, the one he had seen earlier but overlooked; it would have been impossible to miss it now. Not that that mattered, because their own perturbation at his apparent lack of knowledge of their reputation was exactly one of the last worries on his mind. Nothing was making sense, every time this Sungyeol guy opened his mouth. He had completely destroyed any sense of morality and values that had been ingrained in him since birth, ending any idea of some integrity he'd tried to imagine the Republic still retained. But now, this was impossible, utterly and totally impossible. There were very, very certain standards, groups and classes and even sub-classes they were supposed to maintain, social distinctions, and how in the hell did he, a very solid Level 6, get matched with someone undoubtedly an 8, maybe even an 9; they weren't even in the same class. He knew from the very beginning something was really, really off, the moment he stepped into this door and saw everything he couldn't have even of dreamed of, but if this guy is really as big as his ego is letting on, as big as he's saying he is, he shouldn't be here. This is unheard of. This is an error. It has to be.

"Who are you, then?" He heard it from a distance, so locked in the maze of thoughts in his own mind he didn't even know how long he'd been sitting there, trying to work it out and getting further away from an answer. It felt like eternity, trying to find the missing puzzle pieces that would create the whole picture so he could understand, too distracted to even have cared about the conversation anymore.

"Uh, huh? Oh, I'm Nam Woohyun."

If he had been paying attention, he would have seen the relief, the recognition on Sungyeol's face. "I think, wait, I've heard of you. You're the, uh...crap, I don't even remember. Aren't you the-?"

"I don't know why you would have heard of me. Unless you've been reading publications on child psychology, which would surprise me greatly considering your own profession."

The second thing he learned about his match was that Sungyeol definitely wasn't stupid. Perhaps emotionally dense, but that statement had immediately made Sungyeol's head snap up, and he could see that he had already made the connection, had already sensed something was off as well.

"Oh." There was a lot of weight behind that solitary word, more thoughts than could be said in a single breath, and both of them had sat there, obviously trying to figure out what to say, where to begin or what to do, at all.

"Okay," Sungyeol had said, teeth edging his lip in a way that distracted him more than he cared to admit, "that's...yeah, that's, uh, different, I guess. I guess we're 100% matched then."

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind, but it was like a shot of morphine, easing the pain in his heart that had been growing since he had walked into the living quarters. Could a match so perfect transcend the demarcations of society? Could they have truly, honestly meant to be together, truly compatible beyond any other match in the entire Republic? Even though he hadn't thought about that possibility before, the relief sunk deep into his body, relaxing some of the tension that had seeped in with all the detrimental thoughts that had plagued him.

However, they all came rushing back in an instant, the other side of this ever-complicated saga reminding him that that worry had been pushed behind his other concerns; though the impossibility of their union kept tripping him up, the fact was he was left here with some intent from the higher authority, his Watcher's visit proof enough someone at the top had officially approved this decision, irrevocably, and here he was, back at square one with a bent heart wondering how he ended up with someone like Lee Sungyeol.

"How can we be 100% matched if you did those things, though?" He remembered questions, about his expectations in his match, the dreams and aspirations he had for himself, the ways in which his family unit would better the Republic, and disloyalty to all of the above was not an acceptable quality on his profile. He something couldn't understand how someone who would do this would be matched with him.

Sungyeol's stare had been bitter, but he had shrugged it off calmly. "Well, these things are based on personality, and, like, things like that, you know-"

"Well  _my_  personality definitely doesn't support that type of behavior-"

"For fucks sake, are you going to bring this up forever?"

"Yeah, I probably will! At least until you admit that-"

That had set him off, led something in Sungyeol to snap, and Sungyeol had slammed his fist down on the bedside table, making the lamp jump, and he couldn't help but feel a slight bit of disgust at the display. His initial assessment had been correct; Sungyeol definitely couldn't accept responsibility for his own failings.

"I cannot deal with this. I'm not  _going_  to deal with this. There is nothing else I can say here. I understand, wait, I don't, I can't fully understand how you feel, but I can't change what happened. When you can accept that, feel free to come find me. Until then, fuck off." And with that, Sungyeol had left, slamming the door behind him, and he couldn't help but laugh cynically, incredibly put off by Sungyeol's inability to handle the situation.

He hadn't bothered to go look for him; in his mind, he was never going to accept this situation, so what was the point? Instead, he laid staring at the ceiling, running through a list of procedures he thought he needed to begin the process of dissolution. Much later, he could smell a bitter tang of coffee coming from the kitchen, undoubtedly the specter of Sungyeol's presence silently somewhere beyond the door, but Sungyeol never returned and he had no plans to leave his haven; even the idea of food made his stomach turn.

It had started low and deep, barely noticeable against the backdrop of his whirling mind, but the more he had thought about the dissolution, and irrevocable separation followed by a life of solitude, it grew and grew, choking at his throat with an acidic burn. He had dug his face into the pillows, hoping for some escape, but Sungyeol lingered there, the smell of his shampoo and something else too, something only Sungyeol, and that had sent his heart for a ride, and he didn't even realize he had grabbed it and pressed his nose in as far as possible, mouth half open as if to taste the smell of Sungyeol,  _god_  how he wanted to taste Sungyeol, just once and -

It all happened very quickly, his rush for the door, throwing it open wide, but it ended even quicker, because his aim had been standing before him, right there, and he had this look on his face, and his mind couldn't even think of a word to describe it, but he knew that look, knew exactly what Sungyeol was feeling.

"How long have you been standing there?" He didn't mean to whisper, but it felt like the moment would shatter if he so much as breathed in too deeply.

Sungyeol seemed to think this over, shifting from one foot to the other. "A while. A long while. Honestly, I don't even know. I was just hoping-"

"Yes?" His voice had sounded so distant to himself, so abnormal, like it was another person speaking, because Nam Woohyun would never hang off every word of anyone, particularly not someone like Lee Sungyeol. "What were you hoping?"

"I don't know...that maybe you were asleep, and that maybe I could hear you breathing or something. Even something as simple as that, that's all I wanted."

He couldn't believe this was the same man he had been talking to hours and hours ago, but it seemed so far away by then, like a distant bad dream he couldn't remember when he awoke, that he had crumbled, falling into pieces and into Sungyeol at the same time, and he had felt such a sincere feeling of rightness in the world, just to place his head on Sungyeol's chest and feel Sungyeol wrap his arms around him.

He would never remember how it happened, if Sungyeol picked him up or if he dragged Sungyeol all the way over, but he would always remember the feeling of sanctity when he and Sungyeol lay together on their bed, hand in hand, the way the Republic had intended, had brought them together for, and as he fell asleep, peacefully for the first time in days, he felt everything might be nearly okay.

* * *

"Tell me."

He didn't even hear him approach, hear the door at the top of the stairs open, and he rubs the back of his head gingerly, testing the spot he slammed into wall in surprise. "Think you could give a little warning next time?"

"Sorry," Kibum says, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. "But really, tell me."

He knows he can't get out of it, couldn't avoid this conversation if he tried, and he takes a deep breath, if only to calm himself. He wants to get it all out, needs that reassurance that someone is listening, someone to verify what he's feeling is at least somewhat rational, but the idea of opening his mouth and letting the words come out fills him with a dreadful anxiety. Because to speak about it, means to think on it. That's what he's been trying to do, sitting up here in the hiding place on the roof he and Kibum found years ago. He knew Kibum would come, knew this conversation would happen before the day ended.

"It just doesn't make sense, I guess." Kibum nods, that 'go on' nod they've all perfected that says he's listening and wants him to continue without interruption, but how does he even begin this? If he had just simply been insulted, or found some terrible, unsavory habit of Sungyeol's to be an instant turn-off, or something like that, he'd have no problem with this conversation. But how does he explain to Kibum that...it's just wrong. Everything about it is wrong. He and Sungyeol just shouldn't be, at all, for so many reasons, but they are. They really are.

"He's an actor." Kibum's head turns toward him a little, not quite looking but enough that he knows that that information had piqued his interest, and that's good, that's what he wanted. He needs to find a way to illustrate this disaster to Kibum without having to rehash all that happened between him and Sungyeol.

"Really? Very interesting. What's his name? I'm guessing he does small-time-"

"Lee Sungyeol."

The name hadn't meant anything to him, when he had first heard it. He could have read it out of a thousand names and it wouldn't have meant a single thing to him. But Kibum knows who Sungyeol is, he must, because Kibum's eyes meet his, searching his face as if he's trying to figure out if this is a joke, and then he sees it in Kibum's eyes, in the lines of his mouth, sees what he already knew but was hoping what just his own insecurities. Kibum's face is like an alarm, every part of it signaling something is most certainly not right here, and he digs his face into his hands, not wanting to acknowledge what he already felt inside.  _This wasn't supposed to happen_.

"Kibum, I tried to tell you! I really tried-"

"I know, I know, Woohyun, shh," Kibum's arms are tight around him now, and it helps a little to buoy him in the tidal wave of overwhelming chaos he feels stuck in. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay."

"It's not okay, it's really not, I knew the moment I walked into his living quarters it was all wrong because it...I shouldn't have been there. I shouldn't  _be_  there." He knows he's rambling, talking way too fast and heaving on his words as his tears stick in his throat, but at some point the levee breaks, and he has to let go. "Even my Watcher couldn't hide her confusion, but I let it go, and then he came to me and he...he said all these things that I didn't understand, he thought I was someone else and I couldn't understand why I would be anyone but me, and then we fought and fought about it and I really hated him almost, I told him I wanted a dissolution but I didn't really mean it but I didn't really not mean it either, and then we tried, because no matter what we were going to be in seclusion anyways, but he...and I...Kibum."

He knows that almost none of that made sense to Kibum, but Kibum doesn't press him for anything else, just wipes his tears away with his thumb, and he realizes Kibum's been holding him this whole time and of course they've always had passing touches and things like that, things that were borderline permissible under the circumstances, but now Kibum's holding him, really holding him, and-

 _It doesn't feel like Sungyeol_.

He wrenches free of Kibum's grasp, hands clawing at the ground to move away, and Kibum looks nothing short of shocked. He feels frozen for a moment, mind skittering out of control, and then he rushes back to Kibum, cupping his face in both of his hands.

"What are you doing?" Kibum doesn't pull away, but he doesn't look particularly comfortable either. He remains there for a moment, waiting for something to happen, before letting his hands drop to his sides.

"It doesn't feel like...it doesn't feel the same." He sounds astounded, even to his own ears, and he's surprised to hear Kibum's laugh, actually amused by that.

"Of course it doesn't. What did you expect?" He really doesn't know, but something like he had been told for years, about how touching was disallowed to protect them, about how easily feelings would come about, even if they just briefly allowed themselves to fall into the temptation. Kibum's arm around his shoulder felt like if it were Boohyun, or his dad maybe; comforting, perhaps secure, but nothing, nothing like Sungyeol.

It's almost as if Kibum can see the path his mind is taking, because by the time he manages to get out "so it feels different when you touch-", Kibum's already prepared for him.

"Yes. Yes yes yes,  _ohhhh_ , yes. It does. Very much so." Kibum's little secret smile does everything to validate exactly how he feels about that, and he nearly has to look away, the moment almost seeming invasive, even between them.

He slumps back on his feet, feeling dizzy all over again. Does anything he was told growing up have any bearing, whatsoever? And if touching Sungyeol felt like that, or, better yet, touching Kibum felt so lacking compared to touching Sungyeol, could he give that up? If Sungyeol feels like that to him, doesn't that mean the system worked? But if the system worked, why are they in this position? Every time he tries to move ahead to find an answer, he feels like he's taking ten steps back with more and more questions.

"So, you touched then?" There's a hesitance in Kibum's voice, something so unlike him that he can only stare before it sinks in what Kibum's asking, and what, in turn, he had revealed. "I mean, you don't have to talk about-"

"No, it's pretty obvious now. I mean, we- that is...yeah. Yeah." It's so uncomfortable, to be on edge with Kibum of all people, but that's how it is; that's how he's been, ever since he walked into that damned living quarters. He feels on edge about every part of his life, not just with his match but with himself, his relationships with others and even how he works. They certainly didn't teach him how all-consuming this whole thing could be (if they could even have done it without lying).

In a way, he wants to give this to Kibum, to open up because they really just don't keep secrets, and the moment Kibum got back from seclusion every last detail was painstakingly recounted (sometimes, almost too painstakingly), but his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, unwilling to move. It's just too overwhelming, right in the moment, too fresh and open and he hasn't even began to repair the wound, hasn't even revisited it because it's just almost too surreal.

"Yes," he says, with an odd note of finality in his tone. "We did."

* * *

He'd slept past the morning and halfway through the afternoon, completely out of his normal schedule but exhausted beyond the point of maintaining any semblance of it. After the events of the morning, on top of the almost nonexistent sleep he'd had the night before, he'd fallen asleep quickly and slept deeply for hours.

The dreams came back, nearly as hazy as the night before but almost more tangible. Dreams that he hadn't had since he was much younger, dreams that made him reach out in his sleep. Dreams of two sets of hands, long fingers tracing the line of his spine and the jut of his hip, tangling in his hair and cupping his face.

He wasn't sure when it became real; it sort of all melted together, the feeling of a liquid dream turning into a tangible sensation as his eyes had opened but the feeling had remained. Some part of him had wanted to turn away, but he'd felt frozen, again. He wasn't even sure if Sungyeol was awake, completely awake, because his eyes were closed, but his hands traced slowly, constantly, on and on without end.

He'd felt trapped, one of Sungyeol's long legs thrown over his, keeping him as captive as the pull in his belly, the feeling that urged him move even closer into the arc of Sungyeol's arm, draped over him to trace lines on the small of his back. Maybe it was his sleepiness, the fact he was just barely awake, but he'd move closer despite everything that made him want escape this bed and this place and never look back. Wanted, for whatever reason, to feel what it was like to press his body against someone's completely.

He done that, pressed their chests skin to skin, but Sungyeol had moved against him in response, eyes still shut to the world, and that had slid the hard length of Sungyeol against his own straining erection, slowly enough that it seemed to last forever, and maybe it was the fact he had groaned aloud, or the pressure and heat building between their bodies, but he had looked up and met Sungyeol's eyes, alert and certainly awake and something else, something he couldn't name, staring back at him.

" _Woohyun_."

No one had ever said his name like that, no one could ever say his name like that again, and it had sparked something within him, something he couldn't control, something that made his hips jerk into Sungyeol's, and then he finally found out what it was like to have someone else's tongue trace the round of his mouth. And there were a thousand reasons why he should get up, should push Sungyeol away like Sungyeol had pushed him away, vindications for his anger that still boiled under his skin, but he couldn't remember a single damn one of them, not when Sungyeol yanked the cotton of his pajamas down below his hips, enough to grab his ass and pull him flush against his skin, he couldn't remember at all.

He didn't know how Sungyeol managed to get his own pants down, not with his hands everywhere on his skin, branding him like he belonged to him, but he had shouted out when Sungyeol guided his cock against the hot skin of his own, wrapped one hand around the both and stroked them together. He had no finesse, no rhythm to this dance he'd never done, but Sungyeol had led them, holding him close with his free hand as he bucked up into him, rubbing the head of his cock with one thumb until he trembled. He hadn't imagined something could feel like this, so pleasurable it made his teeth go on edge as Sungyeol sucked a bruise into his shoulder, and despite the idea that dissolution still loomed, at least once he wanted to know what it felt like.

It had been so gradual, like filling up a cup and waiting for it to spill over the brim, that he had gotten a little lost, unsure of anything in the world, any other circumstance but the feeling of Sungyeol all around him, that the juxtaposition of the cold air suddenly rushing in had made him cry out.

"Shit, Woohyun...I shouldn't have done that, fuck." Sungyeol's voice was somewhere in the proximity of his ear, when his mouth had recently been, but had floated away, settling what seemed to be an insurmountable distance back. It'd taken a moment, for him to pry open his eyes, because the cold and hollowness that had creeped into the pit of his stomach had made him recoil, and the sight of Sungyeol, sitting back on his feet on the far side of the bed, hard and throbbing between his legs but just so sad, infinitesimally sad, hadn't helped the feeling in the slightest.

"What-" he had been so confused, suddenly unsure of himself and without any idea of really anything anymore, and Sungyeol had slapped a hand to his own head, almost violently, fingers digging into his hair roughly.

"Look, you deserve a lot more than this, okay?" Sungyeol had flung out, almost torturously, "Something better, and I shouldn't have...I just shouldn't have. I should have waited, I shouldn't have pushed- fuck, I'm sorry, Woohyun."

The bed hadn't been hard enough for penance as he had hit his head back, once and then twice, feeling stupid for falling for it again. He knew, he had fucking knew what could happen, but he was stupid enough to believe it wouldn't happen, stupid enough to want something for just a moment and let that cloud his judgement, and it stung, like rubbing salt in a wound.

"You're killing me," he had said, teeth grinding together because he had wanted to scream and it had nearly come out like that anyways. "You're absolutely killing me, Sungyeol!"

Sungyeol's face had imprinted on his mind, for forever, a look of agony, disgust, confusion, regret. It had cut through a little of his own despair, because Sungyeol looked just as confused as he felt, just as lost and unsure of what to do, and it wasn't until much later, alone and far away in bed in a guest room with the scene replaying on repeat in his mind, that this was Sungyeol's first time, too. Not at touching, but at having a match, at having your forever person. The initial anger had clouded his mind, but that had nearly made him jump right out of bed, race down the hall and throw open the door to Sungyeol's, or, actually,  _their_  room, and try to reconcile this.

 _Nearly_.

But he had remained, greeting the dawn with sleepless bloodshot eyes, and he had left before Sungyeol, slipping out the front door silently. Something had to give between them, some understanding or apology or truce, but he couldn't be the first one to give it. He wasn't sure he could wait much longer for it, either. He had options, for sure, but none of them seemed right, and all he wanted was something simple, some happiness he had been promised.

It didn't seem like too much to ask for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok yikes I don't think it'll be another two months nearly until i post the next chapter, fingers crossed
> 
> (tbh I wrote like 75% of this in a week and I despised it so much it took me 7 more weeks to finish it and I swear I will never hate writing anything else in my life as much as I hated this chapter)


	5. we never meant you harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are slight mentions of harm/violence, just a heads up

When he opens the front door, his Guide doesn't look him in the eyes, and he can't help but feel overwhelmingly relieved that's the case. He couldn't even meet his own eyes in the mirror this morning, and even though he knows the Guide would have no idea what he did, he still finds comfort in the fact someone on a low level like the Guide is required to respect him this way. He needs the unobtrusiveness to get through the day today. 

The Guide leads the way, to the elevator and down down down, below the building and into the Box, and he settles in, staring at the enclosed walls as the vehicle jerks to life. When he had learned about prisons in school, a distant relic of a time before the Republic had just banished people forever, one of his classmates had likened them to the Box, the claustrophobic feeling of entrapment. His teacher, an older man who had lived in the time before the coup, had bitterly laughed, saying that at least most prisons had windows. None of them had known how to respond to that. (Eventually, he was relocated to another school after assigning them a paper on how they would change the Republic, or so the principal had told their class.)

He usually spends this time doing some last minute line review, maybe sleeping a little longer or reading a bit (they never tell him where he's going, the journey sometimes a few short minutes and sometimes hours on end) but today he just stares, not seeing the walls or the floor or the ceiling. He sees himself, blinded by lust and drawn to the fire that was Woohyun, sees two dark eyes with dilated pupils and an open mouth calling out to him, sees a man who's innocent in all of this, a man who doesn't even know what he wants, what there  _is_  to want. He sees himself like an out of body experience, taking advantage, pushing too far, too fast. He sees Woohyun, confused, destroyed, bitter. Why was he so bitter? Didn't he realize he was trying to help him?

His life would be so much easier if he could just stop thinking about Woohyun for a minute. Stop thinking about the way his skin felt. Stop thinking about how good his mouth tasted, like sin and honey and desire. Stop thinking about how Woohyun's morning was. Sungyeol heard him leave, almost silent footsteps nearly drowned out by the pounding of his heart as Woohyun had come down the hallway. He heard him pause, for just a moment, right outside of the door, and then Woohyun had moved away, and he could breathe again. How were his morning travels? What was he thinking about along the way?

_Is Woohyun okay?_

He pushes his face into his hands, rubbing his eyes roughly as if that will clear his conscience, and when he looks up again, his Guide is staring at him in the mirror. They look away quickly, but not quick enough, and he feels like they know everything now, how much of a failure he is. He couldn't even protect the one person he was charged with taking care. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to acknowledge that, yes, this is mostly his fault, he has to. Woohyun  _can't_  be okay, must be suffering wherever he is, and it is entirely because of him.

* * *

When the Box opens, he knows exactly where he's at. It's the little things he noticed as time has passed that have led him to survive and thrive this long. The underground garage with the narrow, narrow spaces is the studio. The one with the peeling paint is the Department headquarters. These little things have helped him anticipate what comes next; they think they've kept him in the dark, like everyone else, and his overdone antics probably have led them to believe he doesn't have the sheer intelligence to see through them. It's just another part of his act; no one really knows what he's capable of, and that's exactly how he wants it to be.

The low ceiling in the carpark means the salon. He reaches up and stretches for it, just like he does every time he comes here, the cement ceiling just out of the reach of his fingers; it feels normal, something familiar. His life has been all out of whack, and he thrives on the routine he was used to. He liked the predictability, and the recent unstableness of everything has taken its toll on his mental wellbeing.

The shop freezes when he enters, hairdressers and make-ups artists frozen like statues at his arrival. Once he picks out one that always does a good job with him, life resumes without a second thought from him. He barely remembers what it was like, to be a person the world didn't stop for; it's just an added benefit, the respect demanded at the level he's reached. He wondered what else there could be, beyond him; Level 10 is unattainable, bestowed upon the President, his family, war heroes and the most important of the government headship. But Level 9 has always loomed, just beyond his reach, and if this movie does well, maybe he'll achieve it. The  _if_  it hinges on is still a colossal question, but if what his Watcher has said in the last few months, if he behaves himself, it will soon be allowed to him.

As if beckoned by his thoughts, he appears without warning, one moment somewhere else and the next at his elbow. He swears he must have been an assassin or spy before retiring for a calmer life, and his nods politely, extending his greetings. There have been numerous Watchers along the way, ones he tested and tricked and undoubtedly annoyed, but never with this one. He knows this one is the one they've sent to transition his progression to a higher level, and he's been nothing but a model citizen for this guy.

"Congratulations, Sungyeol-ssi," he says, inclining his own head, "may you provide for the Republic as the Republic has provided for you."

"As well by you," he replies, formalities completed. He never thinks about it anymore; it's as automatic as singing the anthem or reciting the Pledge to the Republic. He tries to put on a sincere face, especially for the people it looks good to look good in front of. It's worked for him so far.

"I trust that you are well situated with your match. I know it has been a...particularly...long time coming, and I hope the eager anticipation has provided you with well opportunity to reflect and consider your role as a companion. You've certainly had plenty of practice imitating the role."

He carefully considers what he should say as he tilts his head back, allowing the mute stylist to begin his regimen. He knew from the very beginning that this Watcher was here to approve his transition, because talking to this guy is like having a god damn battle of words. Everything he says is so calculated, all with the intention of having him slip, looking even the slightest bit ungrateful or questioning so he can slap that in his file, and this guy is  _so good_  at it. But he's even better at this charade.

"Of course. The wait was worth it; I trusted the Department's decision would be in my best interest, and it was." He's careful, thoughtful, each word an additional creation in this facade he's been acting out for so long. "We're taking things slow, getting acquainted. I am grateful for the honor bestowed unto me, and I will do my best to create a family unit that embodies the values of my forefathers."

It's all such a load of shit, every last word dripping with lies and embellishments, but he plasters on the most content and sincere face he can manage, and his Watcher nods approvingly at his little speech. He can't very well say "yeah, I fucked things up immediately and, oh, by the way, I have serious doubts about our so-called compatibility", can't let on he's anything less than simultaneously over the moon and head over heels, because then it's a mark on him. A flaw. Flaws don't lead to promotions.

"Good, good, I'm very glad to hear that is the case," his Watcher says, jotting down a note or two in his handheld and collecting his things. "Well, as you know, a caseworker will come from the Department later to verify that the match has been undertaken smoothly, so expect them around lunchtime for your examination. Until then."

He slips, completely falters, because he doesn't remember this part of process being taught to him during any part of his match education. He doesn't exactly know what examination means, but if it's like any other one he's ever had, it doesn't exactly sound good.

"Uh, are...will he be there?"

His Watcher pauses by his side, looking down on him, but he stares into the mirror, willing away the red that creeps up his neck and onto his face like a growing vine of shame. The foundation does a good job at covering it, but he can't wipe the terrified look off his face fast enough, and it shows.

"No, of course not. Naturally, yes, he will interviewed as well, but we cannot waste the work time carting you two off to be together for this. Surely you're not insisting he take off more time after he's been gone for three days, are you?" His Watcher is perturbed, utterly, and he thinks quick, hoping to rectify the situation.

"I mean, no, I meant to say that I was hoping to not take him away from work further by having him brought out. I know he's, uh, very dedicated to his work, and I'm sure he was eager to get back into to the office, er, practice, and resume his tasks."

It's not one of his better performances, but he manages well enough to get it out, and his Watcher's critical gaze only lingers for a moment more before he shrugs it off, turning once again to leave. "Yes, Sungyeol, we all have work we are eager to get back to. I trust you are just as keen to get back yourself, no? You have a big responsibility that has been entrusted upon you, Sungyeol; this is a time of exciting changes."

He sinks back into the seat when his Watcher finally leaves, and the stylist just silently works on, as if he didn't even hear a single word of the conversation that just occurred in front of him.  _Exciting changes_ , his ass. If anything, every step further he takes on this path of his turns out to be more and more precarious.

* * *

He's in the Box again after he routine is done, but this time his worries are completely different. It's not so much that he's worried about what  _he_  should say; he can pull that out of thin air if the questions get too close for comfort. Instead, his mind is consumed with Woohyun once more: what he'll say, what he's feeling. Woohyun had thrown out the idea of dissolution; the last time they'd had even been in the proximity of one another hadn't been a particularly positive moment, either. His future success relies heavily on making this work, and he needs to explain to Woohyun that he can make this better, they can be better.

Which, of course, is impossible at the moment.

He questions his stupidity in not at least getting his number to contact him before he remembers he didn't really have the chance. He highly doubts Woohyun would have been eager to hand over his information in between the deadly stares they were shooting at each other throughout the whole seclusion. He double checks his phone, seeing if the number's already been added to his approved list of contacts, but it's not there, and he tosses the phone in the seat next to him, waves of nausea growing higher and higher in the pit of his stomach.

It takes nearly 30 minutes to get to where he's going, and he already knows from the routine turns and stops his destination. The usual staff of the department bow deeply as he enters, and he bows his head back, momentarily forgetting he's no longer obligated to return the courtesy to workers below his level. They don't notice, waists bent until he passes, but it doesn't stop him from thinking; what level are they on? Surely it must be below Woohyun's level. Is Woohyun obligated to honor him in the same way? Is there that much difference between them?

The last thought makes him laugh. There certainly must be a huge difference between them, a near insurmountable one. He's never trusted the Republic as much as he lies and says he does, but on the other hand, everyone else he knows that is matched (and, albeit, he has very few friends due to the restrictions placed on him) seem much more well-suited and affectionate with their own than he and Woohyun could ever seemingly be. There aren't just speed bumps in their union; there's a great big looming barrier here that he's not sure they can get around.

He's ushered into a conference room, one he's been in a million times for script readings and conferences and auditions, and there's a familiar camera set up at one end, behind a chair. It is almost like an audition for him, but the woman who enters is someone he's never seen before in the department, and he knows this is what his Watcher was referring to earlier. His heart starts pounding, but she has a calming, gentle face, and that eases his tension a little.

"Please, Mr. Lee," she beckons to the seat across from her. "Make yourself comfortable."

The presence of the camera is, in his mind, for obvious reasons, but he can't help but wonder if it's just for him, because he's  _him_ , or if this is a universal thing. Will they tape Woohyun? Will Woohyun stutter, eyes flickering back once and again to the screen, like everyone else on their first time in front of the camera? He stares at her hands as she maneuvers it to capture his face, and her eyes follow his gaze.

"It's just for posterity," she says, seemingly unbothered by his curious appraisal. "So that the record is completely accurate."

"So you can analyze the body language, something like that."

It just comes to his mouth without a thought, his first instinct into the reasons why, and she pauses for a moment, as if debating if she should even respond to it. He's usually so careful, to notice these things and tuck them away for his own use later, and her reaction gives her away. It's obvious they're filming this for more than just a perfect record; they're analyzing this, studying it, and he's not sure if it's only him or everyone. Either way, he has to be as careful as possible, because they're watching him, intently.

Her questions are straightforward, almost the same things he might expect his mom to ask him when they talk eventually, but he knows better than to let his guard down. If she were exact in her questioning, detailed in what she wanted to know, he could just agree or disagree, but she's urging him to use his own words ( _to slip up_ ), and he really has to protect himself when he answers her.

"Are you happy, Mr. Lee?"

It would be so easy to just say yes, but he knows if he does she'll just keep pushing until he opens up more. She, or someone else, wants solid proof, either way, on what occurred during their seclusion, and despite all his playing around for years, being the match to this person and that on screen, he's having a hard time acting in a way he thinks is sincere enough to pass off as true.

"I mean, yes, I suppose. I feel...hm. I feel very different when I'm with him, uh, Woohyun, than anyone else I've ever met. Like- sorry, I don't know how to describe it. He feels different to me." Sometimes it's almost easy to answer what she's looking for, and he tries not to lose the line between what is real and what is fantasy.

There are scribbles and more scribbles, endless notes she takes the whole time he answers her on what his expectations are for the future, if he thinks Woohyun is suited to him, how he expects to be the best match to Woohyun in the future, and the hands on the clock round the glass once and even more as he stumbles through the worst performance of his life. He's beginning to wonder if they know, and they're just waiting him to crack and scream that he's a fraud, a fake and that he fucked it all up royally.

The door flies open almost two hours in the interrogation, long after any new information could even be divulged, and he thinks someone must have finally snapped and decided to cut the whole thing short, but the woman jumps in her seat, hand flying to her heart, and she looks frantically over her shoulder, searching for the cause of the commotion. The man in black appears like a ghost out of the air, looking around the room once before hurrying over to the camera, flipping the switch off before turning to the woman.

"Get. Out."

She must know him, must have seen his anger before, because she grabs her notebook in a heartbeat, clutching it to her chest as she hurries from the room, and he wonders briefly if this is it, the very end. Not just of the aspiration, but of everything. Is this the part where the men come into the room, blindfold his eyes and lead him out and into exile, without a word to his family or Woohyun or anyone? Of course, he's not actually sure that's how it would happen, but his imagination has time to run wild as the man in black stares at him from across the table, chest heaving.

"What did I tell you?"

By the end of the sentence, the man in black is screaming, and he shuts his eyes against the harsh grate of the man's voice against his ears. The voice is so angry, so so angry, that his fingernails dig into the leather of the armrests on his chair, skin crawling in some emotion he can't pinpoint. He hasn't been yelled at in a long time, not really, and never like this.

"I don't know," he says calmly, trying to maintain some semblance of naivete, "there were a lot of thi-"

"Don't you  _dare_  play dumb with me, you son of a bitch!" He hasn't heard language like that from a superior ever, never ever, and his eyes open wide when the man's hand slams down on the table. "You know exactly what I told you not to do."

Well, yes. There were a few things, mostly  _don't fuck this up_  and the like, but if the man is here, like this, then yes, he's fairly sure he does know the exact thing the man is talking about, because why else would he be here, right now? It's done. It's 100%, completely done.

He picks at his nails, something to do besides wallow under the man in black's scrutiny. "I really didn't mean-"

"That doesn't matter." His head snaps up at the note of resignation in the man's voice, and he stares in a daze, watching the man collapse into the woman's vacated chair, rubbing his hands over his buzzcut again and again in what he guesses is a nervous habit. In an odd way, he'd almost take the anger over this, because now the man in black looks vulnerable, weak, and he just doesn't know how to feel about that.

"It was all my idea. To allow you the things you were allowed. I thought it would make you better- I mean, it did. You were everything. You still are! But you've lost our trust, Sungyeol. You've put the Republic at risk, Sungyeol. You've ruined it all, Sungyeol."

He wants to steal his name from the man's mouth, if only to escape the pins the man are stabbing into his body, keeping him from moving away to find solace somewhere else. The weight of this whole thing starts pushing down on his shoulders, bowing his spine over his body, and his mouth gapes at the air like a fish out of water, desperately looking for something to say, some excuse or reason, something to make it all better.

"I- wait-"

Nothing comes, no explanation, no way he can wriggle out of this, get by by the skin of his teeth. The man in black is staring right through him, and there's nothing he can do. It's over. Just like that, it's really over. All that work, the dedication and blood and sweat and tears, all gone.

He swallows heavily, tongue feeling sticky and heavy in his mouth as he tries to make it move. "Is this it? Am I, uh, banished then?"

The man in black seems to come back to life a bit, snorting before rolling his eyes skyward. "I like you. I want you to remember that, later on, in case I ever need you. I mean that. I saved your ass from being demoted; you're getting a second chance. Second chance in a place that doesn't give second chances. Do you understand the grace that has been granted to you today?"

He nods like an idiot, mouth still hanging open. He cannot believe this is happening. This whole meeting is the most surreal experience he's ever had, every moment turning and twisting into something else. He knows better than to question it, to even appear anything less than completely attentive to the man's words and decisions, but there's a lingering doubt in the back of his mind, some kind of uncomfortable itch he can't quite reach.

"Now, naturally, there will be consequences..."

Of course there will be consequences. Of course. He never even entertained the idea for a moment in his mind there wouldn't be. But he doesn't know what was said, why it was said or what the man in black was explicitly referring to (though he's reasonably sure there could only be one topic to be  _that_  furious about), and that makes his stomach roll uneasily. If Woohyun had really thrown him under the bus, there would be no discussion; they'd haul him out and he'd already be halfway to the Outside Lands by now. Did he say it in anger? Did he cry as he said it?

"So, we'll replace your match and-"

"What?" His own voice sounds dumb to his ears, but he's nothing less than incredulous. The Republic doesn't just switch matches, for any reason. At least, not that he knows. If anything, they've pressed the 'one chance only' model into their minds so much his worldview literally cannot make sense of what the man in black is telling him.

" _You_  I can't just get rid of.  _He's_  another story. He's a threat to the Republic with what he knows, much too much for someone like him. So we take him out and when you prove yourself we'll give you ano-"

That's about as much as he can handle before the rolling in his stomach becomes dangerous, and he reaches behind him for the trashcan in the corner, barely getting it around before he empties the contents of his stomach. He knows a lot about some of things that can go on behind the scenes, knows too much and yet maybe not enough, but he would have never expected this, for them to discard Woohyun like trash. Without even a second thought, they'll rid any trace of him like he's a blemish that needs to erased.

"You- haven't...have you? Please God, please tell me-" he says between hacking coughs, a second wave of vomit and bile rushing up his throat the moment he thinks about Woohyun, destroyed because of his fuck ups. His throat tightens around burning, unshed tears, closing against the anxiety that chokes off his breath until he's gasping for air. If he has to get on his hands and knees, kiss this man's feet and pledge to throw everything he loves away, he'll do it right now if that's what it takes.

The man in black stares at him for a lingering moment, completely and utterly bewildered by his reaction. "Did you...he had said- you want him to remain your companion?"

He can't even speak, but his head nods up and down so quickly he's sure it will fall off. The man in black seems to think over his profuse earnestness, muttering a string of curses to himself, and then he kicks back out of the chair, tossing a "hold on" over his shoulder before throwing open the door again while reaching for his phone, leaving him to ponder just exactly how his life has descended into the chaotic hell that is has become. Literally every moment since he entered the door of his living quarters and found that set of shoes next to his has been plagued by issues, concerns and utter disasters, one after another.

It sickens him a little (or really, a lot) that Woohyun could so easily be gotten rid of. When he realizes that they would have done so just because the experiment they tried with him failed, just because  _he_  messed up, his stomach heaves again, but there's nothing left to get rid of anymore. Woohyun would die, because of him. And they're mad at him, for sure, terribly upset if the man in black's words have any weight behind them, but they'd use a scapegoat, use his own match as a scapegoat, just because too many people know him, he's indispensable.

And Woohyun's not. He's replaceable. So much for every person making the Republic, as they say.

(It's on this day the world becomes a little more fucked up than he ever could have dreamed.)

A part of him wants to be happy - he can really screw things up and he'll still remain on top. That should be a good feeling, but it's not. All he can think about is how many innocent people have been thrown on the pyre that was intended for someone else. How many of the people of the Republic have been sacrificed for no reason other than to save someone who really did deserve it but served a higher purpose? How many people have been sacrificed for him alone? He never realized the light of his dreams might only be achieved at the extinguishing of someone else's fire.

The man in black returns, huffing loudly as he deposits himself in the chair once again. "You're more trouble than you're worth, you know that?"

It's an obvious attempt at humor, but there's a dark streak of truth there that they both can see, and he doesn't laugh. Not when the man is cracking jokes moments after he got off the phone doing what, canceling someone's afternoon plans to annihilate Woohyun? He's always been trouble, manageable trouble but trouble still, but this is beyond anything else. His hands shake against his legs, but it almost doesn't feel real. Woohyun was almost gone. Holy fuck, the fact that his mind would even have to think about that possibility. The fact that this is the level his life is at now, where this is a viable option. It's the worst thing he could imagine. That they would go that far without a second thought.

"Well, anyways," the man in black continues, "there are going to be changes. New expectations that you absolutely must live by. If not, then both you and your companion are liable for the consequences. It seems at this point that he has not told anyone else of the...details of your previous encounters. If that changes at any time, procedures will be enacted to protect the Republic, at the expense of both of your livelihoods. Furthermore, it is up to you to make sure he understands these expectations, without mentioning his near...banishment. If you, for some reason, disclose  _that_ , then you will be personally outcast without hesitation."

He nods his head at all of this, too speechless to even try to find words to say. It all makes sense, is better than he could hope for all things considered, and he's going to be so careful now on, so careful no one could even believe. (Even though he's not sure how he's doing to exactly keep this whole thing to himself, considering it's easily the most devastating moment of his life and he's not even sure he's the same person anymore.) He's going to prove to them that he's trustworthy, that he deserves everything he's earned. (Even if he's not even sure if it's worth it at the moment.) He's going to protect Woohyun with his life, do everything he can for them. (Even if Woohyun hates him, he has to do this.) He's going to lock this away in his heart and remember it when he wants to step out of line again. (Because he really justs wants to be safe, wants everyone around him to be safe, and, fuck, why is this what his life has become?)

"Lastly, you will be replaced in your ongoing film. You will not have another opportunity until you can assert to us you have earned the chance once again. The board understands just how important this was to you, and hopes that through this experience you will come to understand the standards we expect of you. I mean that, Sungyeol. I hope you feel terrible about this. Absolutely miserable. If you do, then good. I'm sure something else can be arranged if it isn't a big deal to you."

His hands are shaking still, but for entirely different reasons. Some distant logical part of his mind is whispering somewhere in the back, reminding him of where he could be right now, where Woohyun could be, how fucking lucky that is, but the anger screaming in his mind mostly drowns it out. How  _dare_  they take this away from him after he worked so hard?

He knows how angry he looks, knows how palpable his fury is in the room, and it's even worse when the man in black fucking smiles at him, that look of  _oh, good_  spreading across his face. There's only so much truth in the man in black's words; they might say he's irreplaceable now, but he's still a pawn in their games. He used to be okay with that, used to think he was the king of the board with some vast power. They'll move him around as they please, getting what they can with him from while they can.

The man in black dismisses him, waving one hand in his direction, but he stops him as the door before he leaves the room. "Oh, Sungyeol, in case you might have forgotten, please remember your living standards are contingent on your work provided to the Republic. I would not hesitate in redeeming our good graces if you hope to keep your level. Now, go along and get that makeup removed. You won't be needing it for the time being."

He slams the door so loud behind him the secretary at the front desk down the hall jumps in her seat, but she keeps her eyes averted as he stalks through the lobby, past his waiting Guide without a word. The man in black is probably greatly entertained underneath all that anger and disappointment he knows is truly there, and it makes him even angrier, that someone might actually get off on him feeling like this. Some parts of his life have seemed slightly voyeuristic at times, bit and pieces exposed in ways he wouldn't have necessarily chosen on his own accord, but this is too much. That the man in black is going to go back, back to wherever the hell he came from, gather 'round the water cooler and laugh with his cronies, something like " _and then, hah, then he slammed the door like an angry little kid!_ "

His imagination is running wild, and he barely makes it home without totally disintegrating into something he'll really get in trouble for. He already has hell to pay, for lying to his Watcher and to the woman who interviewed him on top of the whole debacle he managed to get himself into, and he fists his hands into his pockets, desperately wanting to slam them into the metal side of the Box but knowing the consequences wouldn't be worth it. Instead, the fire builds and builds as the elevator ticks floor by floor, and by the time he finally gets in his living quarters and away from the world, he picks up the first thing he can gets his hands on and slams it into the wall of the foyer.

It alleviates some of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he immediately regrets it, looking at the shards of glass glittering under the light of the chandelier. He doesn't even recognize it, what he threw, and he fingers a metal frame of what remains, turning it over to reveal a photo of Woohyun and, what he assumes, is Woohyun's brother. They're not smiling, but they look content, side by side, leaning against a wall in some indiscernible location. He desperately wants to be angry at Woohyun, really is deep down, but just like him, Woohyun is a person with aspirations and a brother and needs. Maybe Woohyun was just doing the best he could, maybe Woohyun couldn't lie like him, there are thousand reasons that everything is happening the way it is, and he tries to remember that.

The disgust sets in as he stares at the photo, memorizing Woohyun's face and matching it to the memory of how those cheekbones felt under his fingers. He was so mad about, what, one role? The idea of losing Woohyun is something he can't even truly grasp; being angry over the slight is something he can relate to so much easier. It makes him question his priorities; he had been so ready to lay it all down without a second thought, to spare Woohyun. He wonders if that is his true heart; just yesterday he would have sat Woohyun down and told him to play nice only to maintain his image and make him look good for promotion. Now he's having trouble remembering why the promotion was necessary in the first place, or why he wanted to do what he does so badly. He's surrounded by truly soulless people, tries his best to put himself amongst a crowd he could easily define as 'evil', and he's suddenly not sure why. Even if Woohyun rebukes him, shuts down and pushes him away, he has to protect him now, has to save him no matter what, no matter what lengths or cost. That's what matters now.

He doesn't know what he's going to do when Woohyun comes back, how he should even begin to react to everything that's happened today. He just hopes it's right.

* * *

The agents walk side by side down the hallway, unnoticed by the passing workers without even a second glance. This is what they're trained for. If even a single person gave them more than a second of thought, that'd be quite the cause for concern.

_Cha Seungyoon. Kim Jihyun. Baek Hana_. The doors pass by one by one, but they still haven't found their destination, matching heeled leather boots click-clacking on the tile floor. The door is here somewhere, they'll find it in a moment.

They turn down a hallway,  _Lee Sohyun, Cho Sunhwa, Kim Kibum_. Not here.

She sees it up ahead first, hand briefly touching his shoulder before she points. His body shifts in front of her, engaging and preparing, and they stand once again side by side, ready to begin.

His hand reaches down to his left side, and she freezes.

"Mm." He's not particularly verbal, ever, but she's used to that, and so is the other person on the line.

She can't hear the conversation, short as is, but her head turns sharply when he says "what?". He never questions. Something's wrong.

"Go."

He urges her to turn when she hesitates, and her hand flitters at her right side out of habit. Plans are never abandoned. Their orders come from the most high. Who has the power to cancel an order from the most high?

The door opens a bit, and she knows without looking where his hand has gone too, a twin to her own anxious one.

"Can I help you?" He's a bit shorter than she expected, looking her right in the eyes. He's not afraid, just perplexed.

_No_. One of them says it.  _Wrong door_. He's turning her away from him.

"Who are you looking for? I can help you find them."

Neither of them answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this got dark quickly


	6. everything you said

The thumbpad looms just beyond the reach of his fingertips, mocking him with a halo of blue light. The Guide who brought him here is half-turned away, eager to be on to the next person, but they're stuck waiting for him. Waiting for him to open the door and be in, but he can't make himself do it. He doesn't want to do it.

The Guide turns back around, and he can see their tension, probably overworked and tired and pushed around from place to place all day without a moment's rest, and he knows he should be courteous and just open the damn door, but he can't. He absolutely cannot do that.

"This is the right place."

It's the first time he's ever heard a Guide speak, to anyone, ever, and he doesn't miss the note of anxiety, a hint of question like they're just hoping they didn't screw up. He's vaguely aware of how low their level is, despite their obvious importance in the everyday life of everyone in the entire Republic, and he's probably causing this one an undue amount of stress at the moment, making them linger here when they're probably late for someone else, moving them to say something when they're barely allowed to even look at someone above them. He's feel terrible about that, but he'll feel even more terrible if he goes inside.

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I just moved so recently, it still is so new."

Of course, it doesn't look new. It's the same door and hallway and thumbpad he had at his last apartment and every other place he's lived in the last fifteen years or so since they implemented the new living standards, but beyond the door is a whole new world, one he didn't ask for (at least, not like this). One he didn't expect. One he doesn't know how to handle.

When he sees the Guide fishing out their device, the thing they use to send their signals of drop offs and pick ups and whatever else he supposes they need, he knows he's pushing the limits of acceptable behavior too far, and he presses down his thumb before he can even have second thoughts, watching the blue go green under the print of his skin. The door handle descends a bit, signaling it's unlocked, and he nods his head once to the Guide, opening and shutting the door behind him with a whoosh. He's already pushed it enough to day, and he just silently hopes the Guide isn't calling their supervisor or whomever at this very moment, mentioning his odd behavior, another tick in his file.

Which, at this point, doesn't yet seem to be on the chopping block. He had wondered, on the way home, if he had irrevocably brought around the end, and if he'd be taken in, somewhere else. Or perhaps, maybe, they wouldn't even question him anymore, just send him straight back to the bottom, and his door would open up to one of those coffin-like rooms he heard whispered about, where the lower-level people didn't live, just slept in-between their shifts. Something like that. But when they'd gotten in the elevator and kept going up and up, he'd been sure they still continued for at least another day.

He supposes these things take time. Maybe they didn't even know what to do with him. Maybe they don't know what do with Sungyeol.

It's not like he had intended- well, actually, he  _had_  intended. To say what he had said, when the man had come and said he had to answer the questions about the seclusion. He had been angry, angry enough to not guard his heart, and he had told him everything, every fucked up part of Sungyeol's story, rehashed every moment of disgust and anger in the wake of what had occurred, hadn't thought to censor any feeling or thought he had had. Like therapy, it had been a release, even a revenge of sorts, but after the man had left, quite suddenly and without a word, he had wondered if it had been worth it to let go on such terms, to people who had so much control on his life. He had spit on what they had given him, and he didn't who was accountable in their eyes: himself, Sungyeol, or the both of them.

He had dragged at work after that, dreading the hands on the clock as they moved on, wishing to remain alone in his office forever, if only not to be forced to come to terms with what his actions may have caused. If they demoted him, or both of them, he couldn't forgive himself, despite what he had threatened Sungyeol with. Even worse, the idea of banishment had flittered across his mind, the idea he might be taken away in an instant without a goodbye to anyone he loved; that had physically made him sick, fingers pressed into his eyes as he fought off a growing migraine in the deep of his mind. Regret was not something he particularly relished feeling, and the instantaneous realization that he had fucked up beyond all recognition or repair was simply the most overwhelming experience he had ever felt.

The return of his Guide at the end of the work day and a lack of an abrupt invasion by the Republic morality police helped allay his fears as he headed to wherever they had commanded he be taken. The possibilities he could bring to mind were many, mostly unpleasant, and until he had reached the Box, almost completely centered on himself. He had tried not to think of Sungyeol, first out of indignation, then out of concern, and for the first time since he had met him, he truly wanted to see him, if only to reassure himself Sungyeol was okay. To make sure his words hadn't taken Sungyeol away to some unbeknownst fate.

And when he does see him, he's not sure how it makes him feel. It's the first time they've seen each other since that moment in their bed, and he hasn't forgotten that yet, either. But the relief still comes, initially. Then the residual anger, that he even felt the fury he had acted upon to begin with, because of this man. And, perhaps, confusion, seeing him sitting on the floor of the foyer, legs stretched out in different directions in front of him, sitting amongst a pile of glass, and white knuckles clenched around a broken frame.

Sungyeol doesn't even seem to notice he's there, and he waves a hand in front of him weakly, unsure of what to do. "Are you alright?"

It's a pointless question, because obviously Sungyeol is far from alright, but he puts on a brave face anyway, a overly cheerful "yeah, of course" meant to reassure as he eases his grip on the frame and takes his offered hand to stand up.

"So...what happened?" At the least, he figures he should be courteous and try to to be polite, not because he has any lingering worries he can't place making his stomach twist at the sight of Sungyeol a bit broken on the floor.

Sungyeol looks around the foyer around them, then at the picture in his hand, seemingly as surprised as he is to see it. "Uh, I knocked it over."

He knows better, can easily tell from trajectory of the glass and the bent frame and the mark on the wall above them that Sungyeol threw it, but he almost feels better that Sungyeol is lying and not openly outpouring his feelings at the moment. He doesn't know why he threw it, but he doesn't particularly care either. Maybe he's mad at himself for all the shit he's done over the last few days. He deserves to be. Whatever it is, he's too emotionally run-down to maintain his own stability and balance Sungyeol's too, and he just wants to let it go, the relief of seeing Sungyeol safe oddly weighing on him in a way that makes him feel dizzy and fragile.

He stands there for a moment longer before awkwardly nodding, moving into the apartment and towards his hiding place until he can leave for work tomorrow. He feels Sungyeol behind him, moving along too, and when he turns back, Sungyeol's so close to him he can't breath for a minute. Too close, really, too close that he can smell him again, but he wills himself to ignore it, forcefully recalling what happens every time he gets weak for Sungyeol.

"What?"

"I'm just glad to see you."

It isn't what he expects to hear, and he can't help but wonder if this is Sungyeol's attempt at reconciliation. Some part of him softens, wanting to melt into Sungyeol again, but the strong part of his resolve isn't ready yet, and he takes a step away, seeing Sungyeol's acceptance at his dismissal without a fight. It's a comfort to him, that Sungyeol doesn't push it, and he makes his escape without another word. In a way, he tells himself he wouldn't mind if Sungyeol felt hurt from the rejection, just as he had, but when he thinks about it later, he feels almost thankful Sungyeol easily accepts his distance. He doesn't understand why that makes the twists in his heart come a little undone.

* * *

He doesn't know if Sungyeol is gone or not when he wakes up, and he slides out of the door as quietly as possible, feeling like thief in his own home (the word 'home' resounding in his head every time he thinks about it). Once he's safely out, he can almost pretend the day is normal, just like his old life, down the elevator and into the Box and off to work. The sense of normalcy feels comfortable, like wearing an old t-shirt, and he sinks down into it, looking forward to a new beginning when he bumps into his Guide, stopped in front of Kibum's office.

"What? Why?" The words come out without a thought, almost frantic in their delivery as he rushes to right himself. The Guide gives him a blank look in return, his questions unexpected and probably unwelcome, and he groans internally, hand reaching for the doorknob. There can only be so many reasons they're delivering him here, and none of them are particularly pleasant scenarios he can work through his head.

Kibum isn't around when he closes the door behind him, seemingly running late as usual without a care towards formality or Republic standards, but he barely has time to flop on the couch and really get down to wallowing in self-pity before the door is opening up again.

"What?"

Sungyeol's incredulity is a mirror of his own from moments ago, but his unexpected arrival answers all the questions he might have had. Sungyeol, with him, in Kibum's office, means they've almost certainly been brought in for counseling. He muses, not without a hint of antipathy, this must be the quickest anyone in the entire history of Republic has even been brought in, and that rekindles the fire he's been fighting in himself.

"Where are we?" Sungyeol asks, obviously completely confused as to where they are and for what purposes.

"My office." He's not particularly in a mood to invite a conversation, though he figures if the roles were reversed, he would appreciate a similar cluing-in, despite the circumstances. Sungyeol looks genuinely impressed for him, eyes almost full of awe as they fall on him before examining the rest of the room, and it makes his stomach flutter in a way he quickly tries to stop.

"Really? This is your office. It's very nice." It's polite, and even worse, apparently genuine, and he nearly literally shakes as he tries to brush it off, the words manifesting in him in a way he wants to be angry about but can't.

"Uh, no. Not this one at least. This is my office building, I meant." He's not sure how to explain this without inviting the previously-avoided conversation, and he goes ahead anyways, mentally kicking himself for even opening this door to begin with. "This is my...co-worker's office. Kibum."

Sungyeol stares at him uncertainly, trying to make sense of this turn of events, as if the two of them standing in his office would have been a seemingly normal event. He's waiting to see if Sungyeol can put it together, but Sungyeol keeps asking him questions.

"Oh. Do you know why we happen to be in your co-worker's office, by chance?"

"Kibum is a counselor. A, uhm, relationship counselor. So I can only assume...well." He leaves it at that, an obvious hint of tone on the ' _well_ ', and Sungyeol just looks at him for a moment as if deciding if he's being serious or not.

Sungyeol seems to take this much more calmly than himself, and he simply nods once before settling on the sofa and folding his hands in his lap, staring at the wall across the room patiently. He keeps waiting, staring at him in what he guesses is a particularly awestruck gaze, waiting for the words to unleash like a tidal wave and fall out of Sungyeol's mouth, but Sungyeol just settles in more, face unbelievably neutral in light of the situation. He knows what Sungyeol's at least somewhat capable of, remembers his insistent arguments from before, but they don't reappear this time. He's been acting  _so_  weird lately.

"Don't you have anything to say?" There's a hint of agitation in his voice he doesn't try to hide, instead hoping Sungyeol feels his frustration. Maybe Sungyeol doesn't realize the depth of the situation, probably doesn't because it's not like this is his field or anything, but he'll be damned if Sungyeol leaves this room today without finding out.

Sungyeol doesn't even look at him, just kind of half shrugs in response, and he turns away with a loud huff, over-embellishing so Sungyeol  _can't_  miss how irritated he is. He huffs loudly again, just for good measure, and he stands up abruptly to pace around the room, not out of any particular anxiety over the forthcoming situation, but simply due to a need to be up and away from the asinine man-child he's been matched to.

He and Kibum have very few boundaries, and he doesn't even think about it as the drops into Kibum's desk chair, fingers pushing around papers on Kibum's desk without a care. He doesn't really go through Kibum's stuff, just kind of kicks his feet up and relaxes most of the time until Kibum comes in and shoos him away, but he can't miss the file with his and Sungyeol's name on it right in the center of Kibum's desk, and he very well can't pull himself away from reading it either.

The file consists of all the usual information, his profile and Sungyeol's too, and he skips to Sungyeol's information, devouring it to find out all the things he wants to ask but can't. There's a lot to look take in, Sungyeol's hometown and background and family and level progression, and he feels a bit numb as he turns the sheets describing Sungyeol's life and current state. The last sheet is a short page on their union, the date when they were matched and the times when they individually qualified for the match amongst the other dates and names of matchers and what not. The bright red ink of Sungyeol's qualification date, a full two years after his own, taunts him from the page, and the fire very nearly explodes with a roar inside him.

Kibum enters without his usual fanfare, sending him a look of warning that he ignores as he drags himself back to the couch, and Sungyeol is still sitting just as stoic as before, the asshole. Everything Sungyeol does right now, the way he just sits there, his stupid blank expression, the way he's breathing like it were easy, like he's not nervous, it all pisses him off. The sense of injustice he feels overwhelming, and he huffs once again as he drops down to the couch as far away as he can from Sungyeol, drawing a questionable look from Kibum's direction. Once again, Sungyeol doesn't react (or, perhaps, even worse, is simply ignoring him.)

He's waiting for Kibum to start going on in that formal counselor tone, that one he hates to do and hates even more to hear, but Sungyeol speaks first, and it makes him angry that Sungyeol thinks he can just come in and ask questions without regard or respect in letting the professionals in the room get down to discussing what is going on here.

"Uhm, sorry, I'm not really sure, but- isn't this kind of like, a conflict of interest?"

The answer is a resounding yes in bolded, capital letters, and he looks to Kibum to see if he should answer or not, but Kibum is looking at Sungyeol, eyes kind, and he hopes that Kibum isn't going to cut him too much slack, considering he's the reason they're both sitting here at the moment.

"Just because we're friends doesn't mean he can't help us, obviously," he gets off before Kibum decides to speak, and Kibum shoots him another look, this time with more heat.

"Oh, you guys are allowed to be friends?" There's only honest curiosity in Sungyeol's tone, and it makes something inside twist uncomfortably. Of course, he knows Kibum and his friendship is uncommon by many standards, but it seems so unfortunate to go through life without that relationship, and he's forced to think about the fact that, beyond family, Sungyeol's never had someone he could just be himself with, at any point in his adult life. He finds that overwhelmingly sad, but he remembers what Sungyeol was allowed instead, and that sadness boils down into anger all over again.

"Are you jealous? There were other things you  _were_  allowed." It comes off like an insult, and he can see Sungyeol's shield crack a little, head tilting to this side as if he were slapped across the face with those words. He feeds off of the victorious high it gives him, until he sees Kibum's face, seemingly disappointed with him.

Sungyeol doesn't look at him when he begins to respond "Woohyun, I-", but Kibum cuts him off.

"Don't respond to that. You don't have to answer to someone if they're not respecting you."

He almost doesn't care that his mouth hangs open when his head whips around in Kibum's direction. If he sounds ridiculous when he nearly whines "Kibum!", it's not even something he's thinking about right now. He can't believe that Kibum is making him the bad guy, when he did nothing wrong here.

Kibum doesn't even look at him when he says his name, and he feels no differently than the children he sees who scream and destroy and hit, if only to gain attention, good or bad. It's his mantra, the thing he tells parents all day, in and out, to ignore behavior they don't want to reinforce. He knows exactly what Kibum is doing to him, and all his dreams of Kibum vindicating his anger scatter one by one. It's truly unbelievable.

"Lee Sungyeol, right? Yes, well, I am Kim Kibum, a relationship counselor, and, yes, friend to our precious Woohyun here. To answer your question, though, it is true Woohyun and I have shared a close bond, however, I am the recommended expert given your case. Professionally speaking, I am always impartial with my clients, despite how well I'm acquainted with them."

"All that means is we don't have a choice, is what he's saying, but he promises he'll only take the side of the person who's right," he retorts, and he almost regrets the look of disgust Kibum sends his way. He doesn't miss Sungyeol looking between the both of them, instantly aware of the tension going on, but he can't seem to control it. He's more than aware he should stop, but he's just so  _angry_ , and he hasn't been able to really let that out, and now it's all going to hell.

Kibum ignores him, probably rightfully so. "Anyway, I spent all morning speaking with your Watchers and reading your interviews you gave yesterday. I hope that, if I may without sounding too presumptive, I've been able to gain a little insight into  _both_  of your mindsets as of late, but I'd like you to speak to me, and one another, as we discuss what we can make work here."

There's a hideous sense of shame creeping up his neck at the thought of Kibum seeing that side of him, what he said in that interview, and Sungyeol's own aura, sitting at the end of the couch staring at his lap like he'll die if he makes eye contact with a single soul, is a pretty good rival of his own. They both know exactly why they're here, at least on their own behalf, and in a moment of clarity he realizes that he and Sungyeol aren't that divided on their regrets.

"Now, one of the most basic principles in a healthy relationship is knowing what you and your partner wants for yourselves now and in the future. That includes basic things like expressing and receiving affection and how, shared experiences you might want to encounter, divided and shared responsibilities, going up to bigger things like children, workshare retirement plans, those things. Now, those bigger things don't need to be discussed anytime soon, so lets start with some basic expectations you think are necessary and important to you."

He considers that an open invitation, and he jumps right in, keeping a close eye on Sungyeol's reaction. "Honesty would be nice. Respect maybe. Consideration of my feelings, too. And someone who's dedicated to  _me_...and no one else. You know, it's really not so much to ask for."

He can see Sungyeol's adam's apple bob as he swallows heavily, but he doesn't flinch, even when Kibum does. He feels as if he's started to float away, looking down on himself from above, but he finds it hard to recognize the person sitting on the end of the couch. It isn't him, or it wasn't him, but that's who's there now.

"I understand there are some particularly difficult challenges you two are facing-"

" _Some_?"

"- **together** , but that's what we're here to work on,  _right_?"

It's almost comical, the way that Sungyeol looks between them with this look of horrified wonder on his face, and if he were any less pent up, he would totally laugh. But Kibum is almost intentionally rubbing this in his face, and he can't believe his best friend and closest confidant in the entire world would throw him under the bus like this. Kibum is acting like this is something both of them have to work on. He's acting like he needs to change, too.

"Together. You keep saying this ' _together_ ', like we both got us into this situation. Last time I checked, I did nothing wrong, and  _he_ -"

"Woohyun-"

"I'm not done, Kibum! I am  **not**  done.  _He_  was the one who did all of this.  _He_  was the one who tore apart what was supposed to be ours. I waited for five years, always wondering what I was doing wrong, and it turns out I was waiting for him. Waiting for this guy, who was too busy...fucking around! I endured five years of loneliness and lack of confidence and second-guessing myself just to be paired up with someone who tarnished the whole union we should have created-"

"Stop it."

"No! I am tired of everyone acting like this is my fault. I did everything I was asked and this is what happened. And then, when it all came out, he had the nerve to say all this shit, ' _oh, are you going to bring this up forever_?' Have I gone crazy? Is the whole world upside down?"

"I shouldn't have-"

"You're damn right you shouldn't have, Sungyeol. And then, to make it worse, you kept pulling and pushing me away. Is this a game to you? Am I one of your...whatever you want to call them? You made me wait, while you were getting your shit together and having a leisurely time doing so, and then you set out right to completely ruin all my happiness. What the hell is wrong with you? You're this big shot star but what are you really made of? What kind of person are you? You're nothing. Wait, that's not true, you're fucking-"

He doesn't get to finish that, because his head snaps to the side, and the blossoming wave of pain across his face makes him realize that someone just hit him, hard. It takes a minute for it to work through his mind, and by the time he can breath again and turn to find Sungyeol, wherever the bastard went, he's not there anymore.

Sungyeol's on the other side of the sitting area looming over Kibum, hands huge in comparison to Kibum's almost-slight shoulders as he presses them back into Kibum's chair. Besides Kibum's heaving chest, nothing seems out of the ordinary; if he didn't know better, Sungyeol's pressure would almost look like gentle reassuring, as if the two of them are having a encouraging discussion.

"Don't ever put your hands on him again." It's more casual than a warning, but with a hint of caution that transcends a simple comment, and Sungyeol's tone is deathly serious. He doesn't add any false promises, no "or else" or "you'll deal with me" or other pointless bluff, but the implication is there, hidden in the undertones of his voice and the tension of his body.

When his mind finally comprehends why Sungyeol is telling Kibum that, his mind falters trying to comprehend what just happened. Kibum is his best friend, his supporter, the person who just sits there and nods when he complains and nags at him only when he really deserves it. Kibum doesn't do this. And yet, Kibum did this, and, even worse, it's fucking Sungyeol who's sweeping in to protect him. He can see the well-contained fury in the lines of Sungyeol's body; it's there, tangible as the floor under his feet, and he just doesn't get it. Maybe the whole world really is upside down.

"You can let go now," Kibum says with a near serene amount of calmness, and Sungyeol seems to come back to himself a little, obediently returning to the couch to sit next to him, a little closer than before, but he doesn't begrudge him of that now. There's a heavy awkwardness in the room, no one knowing who should start apologizing first, and it creeps on for an eternal moment before Kibum finally clears his throat.

"It's true that this is a major conflict of interest, if we're speaking openly here. That being said, despite my closeness and...expectations towards Woohyun, that was wholly inappropriate of me, despite the circumstances. Woohyun, I apologize. There is no justification for my actions."

He can only nod blankly, feeling slightly empty from a loss he can't quite put his finger on, and he feels Sungyeol's heavy gaze on him. He knows he doesn't want to see what the look holds, if Sungyeol's disgusted or mad or something else he'll feel guilty about in an instant, but he looks over anyway, curiosity getting the better of him. All he sees is the concern in Sungyeol's eyes, that Sungyeol's  _really_  worried about him, and he looks down, unable to stand it. Between them, Sungyeol's hand is in a fist, centimeters away from his, and he wonders if Sungyeol had reached out to him before thinking better of it. He can feel the way Sungyeol leans towards him, barely noticeable, and he can't tell if Sungyeol even knows he's doing it or not.

"Essentially," Kibum continues, after another prolonged silence, "I will continue to provide my services as a relationship counselor for the foreseeable future, until a satisfactory progress has been made as deemed by the Department. Obviously, I will try my best to maintain a professional attitude in all future meetings. Until then, I'd like to speak to Sungyeol alone-"

He and Sungyeol say "no" at the same time, his with a little more force and Sungyeol's with a little more trepidation, but Kibum holds a mollifying hand up, sympathetic but obviously unwilling to back down.

"Due to the particularly unique extenuating circumstances of this case, as well as previous grievances which are directly affecting the way you are communicating, I think it's best if we start separate and rejoin sometime later. I will meet with you, later."

He's not sure why he listens, but he's so thrown about his mind is all over the place, and there's some loyalty he holds to Kibum, some trust that he can believe Kibum is doing what's best in this situation. The only moment of doubt he has is when he looks at Sungyeol one last time, sees the look in his eyes, almost pleading, as if Sungyeol needs him here, and it takes a lot to get his feet to move again. He doesn't know when Sungyeol began needing him, but somehow, that makes more sense than anything else that happened this morning.

* * *

He thinks about Sungyeol all day, wondering what he's doing, how he's feeling, and what the hell he and Kibum talked about together. He barely manages to make it through two consultations and a session with a set of parents without having his mind constantly wandering, and he goes out of his way to pass by Kibum's office when he's not with a client, the 'in session' sign stuck on the closed door all day. His mind is so shot, he doesn't even feel guilty about the inattentiveness; caught up with trying to find some reason behind this whole mess, he practically hits the door running by the time his Guide arrives, pressing the elevator button at the complex a hundred times in his impatience. He's single-minded in his intent, throwing open the door to the living quarters and seeking out Sungyeol, face down amongst a pile of pillows on the couch.

"You defended me."

Sungyeol doesn't move when he half-yells at him, apparently not at all phased by his impromptu appearance, and he barely makes out a muffled "what?" drowned out by a pile of pillows.

"You  _defended_  me!"

Sungyeol props his head up just enough to give him this look likes he is completely baffled as to what he's talking about, and he waves his arms above his head frantically, unsure of how Sungyeol could have forgotten his chivalrous deeds of the morning.

"Remember this morning? When I was going off and Kibum hit me and you got all ' _don't ever touch him again_ ' and all that? You  _protected_  me. You  _defended_  me. Why did you do that?"

Sungyeol looks like he wants to sink into the crevices of the couch, never to be seen again, but he can't let it go, and he half drags Sungyeol into sitting up. He needs this answer like he needs to breathe, and he doesn't care if Sungyeol is currently turning fourteen shades of red, whether from frustration or embarrassment, he's not sure.

"I mean-" Sungyeol starts, eyes toward the ceiling and shoulders shrugging in some indiscriminate way. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Sit there and let me take it. Nothing, maybe. Shit, join in at that point, probably. Why did you do it Sungyeol?"

He's more than well aware that he's edged closer and closer to Sungyeol on the couch as they've been talking, Sungyeol sinking more and more back into the leather, and it's so like all the kids he helps, when they try to escape answering him, but he knows how to break them down, get them to come around on their own volition, and he's going to do the same exact thing with Sungyeol right now, if it kills him.

"Because I don't want to see you hurt," Sungyeol begins, and he's almost giddy with relief Sungyeol's choosing to tell him this. "I don't want to see you anything less than happy, especially because of me. You were angry at me and you deserved that. You deserved to be able to say those things to me and for me to just listen to them. If it makes you feel better, I wasn't going to stop that. I mean, not just because you should feel better, but because I should, uh, know what I'm doing too, I guess. And then, when he...I have to protect you. It is my responsibility to ensure you are safe and I couldn't- I can't let someone hurt you."

Sungyeol's got it all wrong, but correcting him isn't his priority right now. Whether his anger has justifications or not, he can see how he took it way too far and got caught up in the moment, and that Sungyeol really thinks all the vitirol that spilled out of him then was somehow okay. Kibum might have gone too far too, but none of it matters right now. The only thing his mind can even fill itself with is the man in front of him, looking everywhere but his face, seemingly devoted to him when he did not a single thing to earn that devotion.

"You're really such a fool, you're really trying to live up to your promise and love me even with me acting like this. That's amazing." His voice is full of wonder as he says that, but Sungyeol cuts his eyes to him with a disgruntled look, and he could clap his hands in happiness because that's so much better than Sungyeol acting like the very ground he walks on is sacred. He knows Kibum would disagree, but he wants some anger from Sungyeol, if only so he can shake this overwhelming feeling that Sungyeol really is trying everything to make him happy.

He still has the remaining revulsion to everything that happened over the last few days. It will take time to heal the wounds and come to terms with everything that occurred and shouldn't have, and while he still has reservations about who Sungyeol really is, but seeing Sungyeol change his attitude, no longer shirking the blame and turning it back to him, makes him reexamine if perhaps something can be worked out here. He sits down at Sungyeol's feet, and Sungyeol looks back at him expectantly, as if waiting to be pushed away or pulled in.

"Can I just ask you one thing?" He slides his hand up to take Sungyeol's, resting on his knee, and it feels so intense for the both of them Sungyeol takes a minute before responding.

"Of course."

"Did any of them mean anything to you?" In a way, he can't believe those words are coming out of his mouth, but its been overwhelming him since the first night they met, and he can't move on without figuring this out.

"Not really...no. I don't know-" Sungyeol's throat catches on a word, and he hums a sound of uncertainty. "It's hard to explain."

"Well, I just thought because the Republic said all touches once of age mean something, that's why we have the Rules and all those standards and, uhm-" He cuts off when Sungyeol's hand moves against his, just a little, and he forgets the rest of what he was trying to say.

"They can if your heart is in it, I guess. If that makes sense?" There seems to be some urgent insistence in Sungyeol's words, like he really wants to explain this to him but can't find the words to say how, and he's not sure what Sungyeol is trying to show him.

"Then, how do you know? I mean, it just sounds like you're saying you didn't feel that way with them but then how would you know how it would feel?" He's babbling on, the nervous energy that's grown during this conversation getting the better of him, and he can't remember the last time he felt this way. Nam Woohyun doesn't get nervous, he gets confident. Unless, of course, it has to do with Lee Sungyeol.

All of Sungyeol's stoic and valiant pageantry as of late has nothing on the look he gives him as Sungyeol cradles his hand between his own two, and Sungyeol leans forward, making his breath catch as he practically whispers "because I felt it with you."

"More than them." He says it as a statement, but it's secretly a question, one he's begging Sungyeol to confirm.

"More than anything else I've ever felt."

Sungyeol has every reason to lie to him. They're seemingly stuck together for the time being, but he could still file for dissolution at any time, and it would affect both of them irrevocably. Without even going to that extreme, it's still within Sungyeol's best interest to create a warm and loving family unit. He doesn't forgot that Sungyeol is an actor, trained to act out stories with a convincing portrayal, but something just seems so sincere about him now, he can't believe anything he says if less than completely real. He barely even knows the man sitting in front of him, but he wants to believe, because he's been taught his whole life to trust this whole process, and he wants the happiness of everyone else this had worked for.

"You're just thinking with your dick." He means to tease, hoping to cover up the sudden desire he feels to climb into Sungyeol's lap and snuggle into his neck like a small child, but Sungyeol straightens up and lets go off his hand, seemingly out of remorse and not frustration, and he feels the lack of it immediately.

"I mean, I can't deny that I want you, very badly. I want to kiss you. I want to more than kiss you. But, I want more than even that. None of those things even matter right now. I want to come home every day and see you and ask you how your day is. I want to watch you when you sleep, just to make sure you're sleeping soundly and safely. I want to know how you feel and what you think about and what you want from life. I want all of you, every part, slowly, so I can savor each new moment with you."

The weight of Sungyeol's words settle around his head until he has to bow under the weight of it all. "Will you give me time?"

"Of course," Sungyeol insists adamantly, as if it were even a question.

"That's all I need."

"Well, come to me whenever you're ready then, and we can start over again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doo do doooo I suck at updating whoops


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